Arms Wide Open. Part Eight.
Part 8/13
Hidden From View. [January 13th, 1999]
Dean.
Dean has no memory of how he got inside. He knows that one moment he stood frozen in front of the door while the world tilted out of its axis. The next, he is shushing his own fluttering fear with nonsensical mental babbling. Because this can’t be his brother, clearly; Sammy had been taken years ago, been gone so long. Just like that, snap of your fingers, and Sammy was gone and now he is here and what are the odds. A blink later he finally - finally - embraces his little brother. He breathes in the precious scent of his hair and his skin and even though it’s different, it’s a good smell altogether and really, he couldn’t expect Sammy not to have changed in all those years, could he. Kids grow and all that shit. Still smells like Sammy, just different. He realizes he’s babbling again, and tells himself to shut up.
He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes and he knows that this is his purpose. If he does nothing else, ever, than hold his brother close and keep him safe, Dean can die a happy man.
“I’ve got you, Sammy. It’s over now, you’re safe. I’ve got you.” Dean feels like bursting. He’s never letting go of Sammy, never again. The vague observation that he or Sam or both of them might be going into shock right now can’t deter him - nothing can.
That’s why it takes his overworked mind a few precious seconds to realize that, although he is not trying to get rid of him, Sam isn’t hugging him back, either. The kid just stands there, arms hanging limp at his sides and heart hammering away alarmingly fast. Dean is close enough to feel it. In the blink of an eye he let’s go and stops the babbling. Mentally as well as verbally. He takes a couple of steps back and looks his brother up and down. Shock be screwed, enter stage adrenalin. Because there’s something wrong here.
“What is it, Sammy? Are you hurt?” Sam doesn’t react. He doesn’t even blink. Dean tries very hard not to go instantly mad with worry. He fails. “Did they hurt you?”
Bobby.
Bobby can’t believe what’s happening. This whole situation is surreal. But he can’t afford to lose his calm, not now and especially not in front of Dean. The boy is coming apart as it is. He’d all but thrown himself at his little brother; clutching him, shaking him, hugging him. He’s talking too, but Bobby is still outside so he doesn’t understand a word. He feels he needs to give the kids this much, a little bit of privacy after what? Seven years, eight? He shakes himself out of his stupor and realizes he’s gawking. His jaw snaps shut. In the container, Dean lets go of Sam - Sam! - and takes a step back. This time, when he speaks Bobby hears it loud and clear.
“Did they hurt you?” Dean asks and oh, dear god. All the images from earlier slam into Bobby’s mind with brutal force. The cot. The books and the medical supplies. Flowers on the microwave. Antibiotics. Bread under the sink. Gauze. Cold meds, shower, defibrillator. Shackles. Tools. Nails. Blood. Torch. Oh god. Torch - Burn dressings. Bobby manages to step out of the brothers’ line of sight before he is violently sick.
Dean is giving Sam some space, as it seems. Bobby still feels nauseous, but that’s not important right now. He is worried. When he’d returned to his post at the door, both boys had still been inside. Sam in the back and Dean in front of him, a few steps away from his brother and with his back to Bobby. Since the container is pitch black except for the shaky beams of their flashlights, Bobby can’t see a goddamned thing.
“Can you get him out?” he asks, not for the first time. His thoughts keep going back to whatever he knows about first aid. It’s a lot but that doesn’t ease his anxiety one bit. He’s glad that Dean had insisted on stocking up the med kit. They’d left the salvage yard in a hurry, but New Castle, Indiana had accommodated a well equipped pharmacy. They should be ready for just about everything. Besides severed limbs, maybe. Or internal injuries. Good god, don’t let it be severed limbs. His fear is ridiculous of course, he has seen Sam already. Not for long, but it was enough to assert that he’d not been gushing arterial blood. Bobby should know better. But they’re still in there and something’s wrong and he can’t friggin’ see.
“You think you can get him out?” He asks again and feels like a fool, “At least there’s some light here. Or do you need something?” Water, med kit, blankets, what? Talk to me, boy!
“No Bobby, thanks.” Dean sounds calm and confident. “Just give us a minute. We- uh.” Balls. Not so confident now.
“We might be a little shocky here. But we’ll come out.” Another pause.
“Right, Sammy? Can you come out with me?” Dean takes a step backwards, then another, and finally there’s Sam again. The kid is obviously scared to death and he’s standing completely still. He’s white as a sheet and he looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. He still holds on to the blanket. Dean takes another step back, eyes never leaving the kid.
“Come on now, Sammy. Out we go.” That does it. Sam blinks a couple of times and he still looks confused as hell, but he follows Dean to the door. Bobby has enough time during their slow progression to check the kid more thoroughly for open wounds and other obvious injuries. He’s relieved to see there aren’t any besides the bandaged hands.
“That’s real good, Sammy.” Dean has reached the door and feels with his foot how deep the step down is. He’s still facing his brother and Sam still isn’t talking. Now that he’s closer, Bobby thinks that the unhealthy skin color might not just be a result of his current medical state. Where the scrawny body isn’t covered in worn sweats, he is white, unsettlingly so.. Like 14th-century-aristocracy, never-see-the-light-of-sun pale.
Sam squints his eyes at the dim gleam that filters in from outside and lowers his head again. Sensitive to light, confusion, shock, Bobby lists in his head. He hopes this might be a head injury. He fears it could be something worse. Sam doesn’t look as if he comprehends what’s going on. The boy is standing in the doorway and examines his surroundings, although he never seems to raise his head. He is thin and small, too small for the, what, fourteen years that he’s now? His clothes are tattered and there’s a hole in his right sleeve, but at least they’re clean. The kid itself is clean too, thank god. Both of his hands are thickly bandaged.
Sam doesn’t ask them what happened. He doesn’t smile at them, he isn’t crying. All he does is stand there and look lost. His face doesn’t show a trace of recognition. The kid doesn’t seem to know who they are. Next to him, Dean tugs gently at Bobby’s arm. “What do we do?”
Bobby carefully lowers his voice to Dean’s volume. “Let’s get him to the car.”
“D’you think he’ll come?” Bobby hesitates. He honestly doesn’t know. But he doesn’t want to stay here any longer than they have to. Two human bodies and a ginormous dead fox are scattered over the grounds. Their angel is gone and who knows when the demon overlord is coming back. Bobby would rather avoid meeting the reinforcements.
“Dunno,” he says truthfully, “but I think we should leave. The sooner the better.” In front of them, Sam stiffens. Dean’s voice becomes gentle in a way Bobby hasn’t heard in years. His heart aches with it.
“It’s gonna be ok, Sammy. You’re safe now. Bobby and me, we’ll take care of you.” Sam doesn’t seem to hear him. He stares through the gap in between their bodies and Bobby could swear the kid just got impossibly paler. Sam’s lips move, but he doesn’t make a sound.
“We’re gonna take you home, Sammy. Don’t worry, ok? Sam? Sammy.” Dean actually snaps his fingers next to the kid’s ear now, but Sam doesn’t even flinch. His fist on the blanket starts clenching and unclenching in an erratic rhythm. His breath picks up speed.
“No. No. No.” Sam whispers, “No. No. No. No.” The utter desperation is his voice is painful just to listen to. Dean’s breath hitches. Bobby zeroes in on Sam. He’s still staring straight ahead and downwards. His face is ashen by now. Bobby slowly turns his head and follows the kid’s gaze. Behind them on the floor is the bloody symbol that Cas drew. Next to it lies the dead kitsune.
“Sam,” Bobby says with all the gentle conviction that he has, “she is dead. Don’t worry. She’s not coming back.” Sam’s eyes roll back in his head and Dean jumps forward before Bobby can string together a coherent thought.
“What the hell,” Dean says and jostles the limp body in his arms to get a better grip on him. Bobby is stumped. Both of them want to get Sam out of there so without further ado Dean carries him to the car. Bobby grabs their flashlights and the discarded weapons and throws them in the duffel bag. Before he hurries after Dean, he snaps a picture of the bloody symbol with his phone. Then he looks back at the container that held Sam and quickly walks back to it. He digs his flashlight out once more and takes a few more pictures of the symbols that are spread all over the floor and the ceiling. At least he’ll have something to research now.
Sam.
The air smells different. He’s lying on something soft. He is warm. He doesn’t move for a couple of breaths and when he carefully opens his eyes, his suspicion is confirmed. He’s not in his Box anymore. Lights are flying by in front of him, street lights. He can see them clearly because he is looking out of a window, a real window. It’s huge.
A sudden rustle to his left draws his attention. He turns his head very slowly and he’s shocked to see another window; and this one’s even bigger. Between the window and himself, someone’s sitting. He hears a murmured conversation and he remembers now. These are the men that opened his Box. The younger one even entered it. The older one is called Bobby. He accounts it to his unfamiliar surroundings that it takes him a whole minute to realize that the fact that he can look out of the windows means that others can look in.
He flinches. This is bad, dangerously bad; it’s not allowed. If people can see him, they aren’t safe from him. Maybe this is some sort of test that he doesn’t understand. Because there is no way he can keep from being noticed, not with windows this big. He takes a closer look around and all the warmth leeches from his body. There’s more of them, he is surrounded by windows, and they are everywhere. He shivers with the sudden tension that grabs hold of him. He tries to be rational about his situation, he knows that that’s the right thing to do. So he recaptures. He doesn’t know these men. His Box is gone; the tall guard is dead. He swallows. Sara is dead. Tears well up in his eyes but he forces himself to ignore them. He will grieve when he is alone again, in the dark. Now he has to figure out what is happening.
Dean.
Every other minute Dean throws an anxious glance to the rearview mirror. He gets that Sammy might be overwhelmed, but it feels like there’s more to all of this. The kid had fucking lost consciousness. He hasn’t said a word except for a few, desperate “No’s”. He hasn’t looked them in the eyes. His gut tells him that something’s seriously wrong.
He’d carried Sam to the car after he fainted, put him in the backseats, and made sure he was comfortable. As soon as Bobby had joined him and their bags were stashed in the trunk, they’d left that wretched place behind. They’ve been on the road for close to three hours and the first tendrils of dawn paint the eastern sky in a slightly lighter shade of grey. Sam still hasn’t spoken although Dean is sure he’s awake by now. He heard the change of breath from deep and calm to tense and forced calm. He stares into the mirror once more and sighs. It’s too fucking dark in here.
Maybe Sammy just needs some time, Dean muses, who knows what the kid’s been through. He can do that; give him time, give him space. No problem. Sammy can adjust to being back where he belongs and Dean will keep him safe from now on. Now way is another demon laying its filthy fingers on him again. Dean frowns. Demons and freaky foxes besides, he still doesn’t know what has happened in that warehouse. Or in the years the kid’s been missing. His frown turns into a full grown scowl. He hopes Sammy will recover quickly from this, whatever this is, now that he’s back with Dean and Bobby. He needs the kid to be talking. Dean needs to know who to kill.
Bobby has turned the radio on low, more for background noise than anything. From time to time they talk in hushed voices, but they touch nothing important. It’s as if they’re holding their breath, biding their time. Dean jerks in his seat with held back nervous energy and Booby shoots him a warning glance. Another look in the mirror confirms that nothing’s changed. Dean huffs frustratedly. Bobby shakes his head at him and Dean rolls his eyes, but he settles back into the passenger seat.
The next twenty minutes turn the world into a shadowy version of itself. It’s more than enough light for Dean to see that Sammy is shivering in the back seat. He has turned up the heat as soon as he noticed, but it hasn’t gotten better. If anything, the kid’s getting worse. The gentle shaking has turned into restless twitching and although Sammy doesn’t make a sound Dean knows he’s uncomfortable. Screw this, Dean thinks. Baby steps. I can do that. He slowly turns around until he is facing the backseat and one clearly miserable little brother. Dean plasters on his most comforting smile and clears his throat.
Sam.
He’s in a car. The day is dawning and the world is getting brighter. So he’s been able to determine that much. He is in a car; and he’s moving again. Also, there is not enough space and not enough shelter. Even when he’d huddled in his blankets at night, he’d always known that his Box was still there. If he’d wanted to, he could have gotten up and walked around. He can’t do that here and that fact seems to have the walls close in on him even more. Also, the sun is rising. At first he thought that the opportunity to see an unlimited sunrise might distract him from the conclusion that he is failing to follow the most basic rules. But then he reminded himself that a sunrise came with more light and thus even less chances of staying hidden. He doesn’t know what to do. If his new guards are anything like the old ones, he will be in a world of Pain later. And this time, Sara won’t be able to patch him up again. The memories of her soft white fur spotted with red assault his mind and he hides his face behind his hands. How did this happen?
He had known that something was up when he’d heard another bout of yelling and scuffling outside. There had been crashes too, and he thought he’d heard Sara’s deep growl at one point. This had happened just a few days after they’d arrived at their new location. Once more he’d tried to prepare himself for the possibility that he could be of assistance to heaven’s plans. Once more no one came for him and the noises died down. Then his new guards had come for him and the next thing he knew was waking up in this car. He hopes these men won’t be as creative as the others, though. Sara is gone. He’ll have to take care of himself now. The younger man turns in his seat as if he’d heard the thoughts behind him.
“Are you cold, Sammy?” he says.
“No,” he whispers back. And he isn’t lying, honest. He doesn’t have his blankets with him, but the car is warmer than anything he’s ever known. He couldn’t get cold if he tried; actually, he’s sweating a little. So he is quite content as far as his temperature is concerned. It’s everything else that has him worried.
Dean
Dean doesn’t know whether to feel angry or desperate. Sammy doesn’t even look at him when he shakes his head at Dean’s question. But then, his little brother doesn’t just shake his head. He’s shaking all over. Yeah, not cold my ass. Let me at least keep you warm buddy, please. Dean clears his throat again and glances to the driver’s seat.
“Bobby, don’t you have some blankets in the trunk?” Bobby’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror now too, and he nods.
“I sure do. Would you like me to stop so you can get them out?” Dean can’t help it, he has to smirk at the formal way they talk. Bobby almost sounds like Cas. But he is so grateful that the man goes along with this that he probably won’t hold it over him later. Much. Dean figures that maybe, if they act out what is happening around Sam, it could alleviate the kid’s fears. It’s definitely preferable to the way Sammy shrinks away from him when Dean addresses the runt directly.
“That would be nice.” Dean points out of the passenger side window. “You can park at the side here for a few seconds, if you don’t mind. Thank you, Bobby.”
Dean feels like a high school drama dork for all the expressive gestures and carefully phrased sentences they are using. But for Sammy he wouldn’t mind playing the priest in Romeo and Juliet or, ok, maybe the lead in Grease, ‘cause come on, have you seen the cars?
Sam.
The car slows down and stops. The younger man has talked about fetching some blankets, but he knows all about not getting one’s hopes up. His previous guards had taught him over and over again, until he understood. So when the man opens the door and gets out of the car, he tries to prepare himself. He isn’t hidden, which deserves Pain. He seems to have agitated the young guard, which definitely will cause Pain. He doesn’t know if all of this is a lesson that he doesn’t understand. If so, that will result in much more Pain. He stops and goes through his mental list once more. Then he nods to himself. He is ready.
The young guard gets back in and turns around to look at him. He doesn’t flinch. He keeps his eyes carefully trained on the man’s chin. A few moments pass and when no Pain is forthcoming, he settles for the long haul; his former guards have taught him well. The new one sighs, a clear sign that he is unhappy.
“Sammy,” the guard says. He stays silent and listens. Another sigh. Clearly he is doing something wrong, he just hasn’t figured out yet how.
“Sammy,” the guard says again, “I can see you shivering from here. Look, lemme-” Yet another sigh. “I’ll just put these blankets here, ok. You can take them if you want.”
The guard actually places two folded up blanket on his knees. There still is no Pain. He stays very still.
“You don’t have to use them,” the guard says, “just- you can, if you want to.”
He doesn’t understand what purpose these blankets fulfill. Where they lie on his knees they are uncomfortably warm. He starts to sweat in earnest now. Maybe this is one of the marathon lessons, as his former guards called them. Lessons that would go on and on while something that wasn’t uncomfortable per se would turn into Pain eventually. That’s probably it.
“Well?” the young guard says.
“Thank you,” he answers ashamed. It’s been years since he had to be reminded of the principles of politeness. He unfolds the blankets one by one and spreads them out. They are really warm.
“You’re welcome,” the guard says and sounds a little surprised. He doesn’t sigh this time. “Now, all the way up to your nose. We don’t want you to catch a cold.”
The door of the car slams shut and they start moving again. He does as he’s been told and pulls the blankets up to his face. He feels sweat starting to soak through his clothes and tries to take deep breaths. He is grateful that he hasn’t been told to cover up all the way, he already- He jerks to realization with a bolt. He is so surprised that he actually stares at the young guard’s head, straight at it. The man is facing the other way, but still. Tears prickle behind his eyes again, and this time he can’t fight them. He feels bad for suspecting Pain when the guard actually has offered him a way to avoid it. His former guards never did that. Or maybe, he wonders now, maybe he just never realized they did.
He pulls the blankets all the way over his face and it’s instantly harder to breathe. Seconds later, the air is warm and moist and stale. He smiles and his heart opens wide at the kindness the young guard has bestowed on him. People are safe from him. He finally is hidden from view.
Dean.
They haven’t stopped for the night or for breakfast. Or lunch. They had to refuel the car a couple of times and they have switched places so Bobby could catch some shut-eye. But apart from that they’ve been on the road nonstop since fucking West Virginia. 15 hours. Dean has learned a lot in this time.
Apparently, Sammy doesn’t do questions. He answers yes or no, he’s really polite, and he is an attentive listener. But anything that requires the boy to string together more than two words is a struggle. Mostly, Sam just stares at them wide-eyed and looks ready to bolt. Only, he doesn’t really stare at them, it’s more like he studies their clothes, their faces, hands and necks. Shoulders seem to be his favorite. But eye contact is a no go. Also, even though he’s clearly uncomfortable, he hasn’t actively tried anything yet. Dean has given him a few opportunities to see how skittish Sammy really is, and he has to admit that he’s confused. His brother is obviously as timid as a startled fawn. But even though he’d left the door been wide open and Dean had stepped away further than necessary at the last gas station, Sammy had stayed in the car. Underneath those freaking blankets. Dean almost wishes he hadn’t gotten them from the trunk. The kid seems to be generally thankful for them, but he’s sweating his ass off. Dean keeps telling him that he doesn’t need to use them, but all that earns him are those freakish stares to his shoulder. Most of the time he doesn’t see hair nor hide from his little brother.
Another thing that Sammy has issues with are choices. Do you want to eat now or later? Would you like water or juice? We can take a break or keep on driving, what would you prefer? Are you sure you don’t want to get rid of the friggin’ blankets? None of these elicit any response other than a slight wrinkle to the kid’s brow. And they haven’t even touched the hard parts yet. Was it the demons or the fucking fox that gave you that scar on your temple? Yeah, that would go well.
The runt is good with orders, though. Ask him if he’s thirsty and he dives into a silent metaphysical debate, but when Dean says, “Drink the water,” than that’s what Sammy does. He doesn’t even have to raise his voice and it’s working with Bobby, too. It’s fucking wrong. The little brother he lost was an inquisitive kid; smart, happy, and easy going. This pale ghost of a boy is nothing like Sammy. Dean feels immediately guilty after thinking that. One look into those eyes is enough to know that this is his kid brother. It’s not Sammy’s fault that he’d been taken all those years ago. It’s not on him that demons and monsters joined forces and decided that Sammy should become honorable member of fucking Club Torture. His brother didn’t pick any of this. And that’s what it comes down to in the end. This is on Dean. His little brother is silent, shy, and scared enough to hide under the covers for 15 fucking hours straight. And it’s Dean’s fault.
When they finally reach the salvage yard, it’s long past noon and Dean is starved. Sammy didn’t know whether he’d prefer a tuna, ham or egg sandwich. Or maybe he did know, but he didn’t say. So Dean had picked them all back up and told Sammy that they’d be waiting for him until he decided. Which is why all three sandwiches still lie neatly wrapped on top of the glove compartment. Bobby went for the tuna a few hours ago, but Dean had said, “I promised he could chose,” and that was that.
But now they are home and Bobby will probably make his famous chili for dinner and things will be fine. Which is why he might be a little impatient when Sammy doesn’t get out of the car. Dean has coaxed the boy successfully to the edge of the seat. But as soon as he tells him to leave the blankets and to get into the house, things go south. Dean asks and orders, calmly and not so calm; he pleads and grumbles and fucking begs. But Sammy won’t budge and Dean feels the urge to hit something. When he finally decides to get back into the car himself and to get to the bottom of things, no matter how long it’ll take, the kid passes out again. This better not be their new routine.
Bobby had been watching their little show from the front porch to give them some space. Now he’s hurrying over and eyes the kid in the back. Sam is still half buried under the two blankets and his skin looks flushed and sweaty. “Maybe he’s just exhausted or dehydrated? He looks drenched.”
Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t do a thing, just wanted him to get inside.”
“Yeah, it might be best to get him outta the heat. Do you think you can carry him upstairs?”
Dean nods and together they get Sammy out of the car. He doesn’t like this one bit. They decide to let him have Dean’s room. When they were younger, they’d both slept in it anyway, and Dean doesn’t mind taking the couch. Dean hopes that the familiar setting might make it easier for Sammy to adjust, but if anything, things get worse. As soon as the kid wakes up, he flinches so hard that he falls off the bed. When Dean tries to catch him, Sammy jerks back and crashes into the nightstand - to get away from him. Dean takes another step forward, he has to see whether Sammy has hurt himself. The sound of bone hitting wood still echoes in his ears. Sam doesn’t acknowledge Dean’s presence, though. He honest to god crawls into the corner between the fucking nightstand and the wall. Then the kid touches his face in a circling motion, then his elbow. Over and over again. Face and elbow. Maybe Dean has done it, maybe he has broken his brother’s sanity.
Bobby, who’d been standing in the doorway, takes his arm and leads him from the room like a damsel in distress. He puts Dean in a kitchen chair and sets a plate of food in front of him. Then he prepares another plate, fills a glass of water and takes them upstairs. When he comes back down he orders Dean to start eating and pours him a fifth of whiskey.
They spend the afternoon in silence. Dean knows they’ll have to talk about this, but he’s thankful for the reprieve. They check on Sammy every hour - well, Bobby does, while Dean might actually sit on the floor outside the door, unmoving. Bobby is great with the kid, too. He keeps up a steady litany of mumbled assurances, doesn’t ask questions, and keeps refilling the water glass. At some point he pulls the curtains closed and gets a spare flannel blanket out of the cabinet in the corridor. Bobby has everything under control. And just in case he hasn’t, Dean is but two seconds away.
Knowledge Of The Disastrous Kind. [January 15th, 1999]
Dean.
It’s long after midnight when Bobby finally breaks the silence and motions Dean to go downstairs. After making sure that his brother is still asleep in the corner behind the bed, Dean follows him into the kitchen and sags into a chair. He burned through all the earlier adrenaline and now he feels like he hasn’t slept in a week. Dean grabs the cup of coffee that he’d ignored earlier and takes a sip. It is cold and bitter and gruesome. How fitting. Bobby lifts his cap and scratches his neck, a tell tale sign of anxiousness. The fact that the man doesn’t even try to hide it tells Dean exactly how screwed they are.
“Listen, Dean,” Bobby says, “I think we need to be honest here. I don’t know what to make of all this.” Dean takes another disgusting sip of coffee. “It might be best to give Sam some time. You know, to get him adjusted at his own speed.” Dean hears a ‘but’ and straightens up.
“But we need answers, too. Fast. I have no idea what we’re dealing with here. And I think we’ll need all the info we can get. On that note: Any word from Cas yet?” Dean puts down the mug and shakes his head.
“Nothing. It must have been quite some mojo he used, though, blowing that demon away like that. Do you think he’s ok?”
“How the hell should I know?” Dean raises his eyebrows at the retort and the older hunter sighs and adjusts his cap once more. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.” He pulls over a folder and some print outs and spreads them over the table.
“I’ve been looking at the symbols that were in that container.”
“When did you manage to do that?” Did Dean mention that Bobby is generally awesome?
“Well, not all of us have been sitting on their thumbs all day long.” Dean flinches guiltily and Bobby groans.
“Sorry, kid. It’s been a hell of a day.”
“I know, Bobby. I’m sorry, too. It’s just- it’s Sammy,” he says as if that would explain everything. It kinda does. Bobby points at the slightly unfocused pictures that he took with his phone.
“Almost all of these are protective sigils of some sort. Of a wild variety of different religions and beliefs.” Dean grabs some of the pictures and examines them more closely.
“Protective sigils,” he repeats, “To keep things in or out?”
“Both, actually. You see the one right behind the door?” Bobby points at one of the more intricate ones. “That’s a devil’s trap. And the big one in middle of the floor is called the Double seal of Solomon.” He pauses and Dean tries not to look annoyed. He’s sure Bobby is going somewhere with this.
“Uh-huh.” Actually, Bobby is going nowhere at all, he just stares at him and Dean feels he has missed his cue. “So?” Bobby rolls his eyes. Yup, missed it for sure.
“So, devil’s traps are used to capture and disarm demons. The seal of Solomon is used to protect against the evil eye and Lilith. It is rumored to have demon controlling abilities as well. And it doesn’t get much more powerful than this double sealed version. This is some serious stuff, Dean.”
“What are lilith?”
“Lilith is not a what, she’s a who. According to lore she’s a children stealing demon.” Bobby nods at Dean’s thoughtful expression. “The one over here gives you control over demons as soon as they set eyes on it, fifth pentacle of something- I have that somewhere here. Of Pluto or something.” Bobby starts digging through his notes. Dean leans back into the chair and starts nibbling at a lose splinter on the edge of the table.
“I’m hearing an awful lot of demons here, Bobby.”
“Yup. I guess it’s a good thing we stocked up on the rock salt.” Bobby tries to sound nonchalant, but Dean isn’t buying it.
“Do you think they would come here? To hurt him? Or kill him?” Dean’s voice has risen half an octave and he clears his throat before he continues, “Maybe we should get him into that panic room of yours.” He scuffs back his chair. Bobby doesn’t move, though.
“He’s been through a lot, son. We can do that when he’s up tomorrow.” Dean nods but he keeps going towards the stairs anyway.
“Hey, we’re not done here,” Bobby says, slightly annoyed and sheepish at the same time. Dean doesn’t like it.
“Sorry man. I just wanted to-” Dean waves at the general upstairs and sits back down. “What else?”
“Uhm.” Nope, doesn’t sound good at all. Dean picks the cup of cold coffee back up and carefully avoids Bobby’s eyes.
“It’s-“ The older hunter starts twisting his pen between his fingers. The moment of silence drags on.
“Sam,” Bobby finally says, “he seems to have some… issues.” Dean levels his gaze at the pen. It’s twirling in the gleam of the kitchen lights and throws silvery reflections on the table.
“I know it’s not even been a day. But, uh. I’m not sure-” The twirling stops. Dean holds his breath.
“He needs to deal with this, Dean,” Bobby finally rushes out, “and I don’t know whether we are the best people to help him there. Now, I know that you don’t wanna leave him outta your sight yet, but maybe he should-” The pen is set down to the table with an air of finality. Dean clangs the coffee pot down hard enough that it’s a miracle it doesn’t shatter on impact.
“He should what, Bobby?” He can see the other man swallow. Dean likes to think that he’s a pretty easy going guy, despite all his emotional baggage. But he’d been wound so tight all day long that it wouldn’t take much to have him blowing up in Bobby’s face. He gets to his feet and positions himself between Bobby and the stairs. Just in case. Primary objective; keep Sammy safe. His eyes flicker over his immediate surroundings as he checks for things that could be used as a weapon. Seeing as they’re in a hunter’s home, things could escalate quite easily as he realizes.
Bobby hasn’t moved yet, but he has followed Dean’s actions closely and now he looks like he came to the exact same conclusion. He raises his hands; tries to appease Dean with the gesture, but the tension cursing through his every muscle doesn’t allow for it. Until he knows whether Sammy is safe and welcome here, not a fucking second of appeasing will happen.
“He should what,” Dean spats out, “Go?” Bobby doesn’t answer and that’s enough of an admittance for Dean.
“For fuck’s sake, Bobby. We don’t even know what happened to him. How can you say that?” Bobby opens his mouth but Dean is seething. He shakes his head at Bobby and at the world in general, for that matter.
“You know what? I don’t care. I don’t give a rats ass what you think. You know nothing. This is Sam that we’re talking about. He’s not going anywhere, not without me.” Bobby opens his mouth again but Dean pushes through. “What the hell are you saying, Bobby? That you don’t want him here? Just say the word and we are gone.” Dean’s voice falters and he hopes that Bobby disagrees. This time though, Bobby just stares at him with an expression he can’t decipher. Fine then! Fuck this. Even if he has nothing, he still has his pride and now he has Sammy, too. He’s the richest man in the world. He’s a fucking Winchester. Who the hell needs Bobby.
“You don’t want us? This is too much for you?” Deans squints his eyes and levels a hard glare at the older man. His mouth is a grim, thin line; red lips pale with the pressure.
“Fuck you, Bobby! We sure don’t want to put you out. You don’t want us here? Fine! We’re leaving.” Bobby gets up in his face so quick that he has cuffed Dean’s neck and given him a vicious shake before Dean has even raised his arms.
“Hey,” he sputters, more surprised than hurt. An angry red colors the older man’s cheeks and Dean is glad that Bobby usually dotes on him. The man is fucking scary in his silent wrath.
“Sit, you stupid moron. I oughta tan your hide for this.” Now it’s Dean’s turn to open his mouth and be glared into submission. “Get your ass seated again, Dean Winchester. Right now!” Dean sits.
“Good. Now hear me out before we both do something we’d regret.” Bobby starts pacing along the kitchen table. “Of course I want you here. You and the kid both.” He scowls accusingly at the younger man. “Moron. You should know better than to think otherwise.” Dean has the good sense to stare at the mess on the kitchen table. Bobby stops in his track and reaches for his shoulder once more. He looks horrified. Dean feels terrible.
“You do know that I want you here, right?” Dean feels a flush rise in his cheeks. He wishes he’d kept his temper in check. This little outbreak has John Winchester written all over it, but this time there is no one to be secretly ashamed of than himself.
“God, I’m sorry, Bobby. You know I know that-” He shakes his head. “You always were-“ His fucking breath hitches and he thinks, Oh swell, all I need is to add a breakdown to the pile of steaming shit that is this day. Good for him that he doesn’t do breakdowns. He takes a deep breath and grabs the cup of coffee again to keep his hands busy.
“It’s just - I just got him back, Bobby.” He doesn’t know how he can say this so Bobby will understand. “I won’t leave him alone again, I can’t. Especially not to deal with this-” He makes an all encompassing wave. “All of this, whatever it is.” He pours all the honesty he can muster into his voice and isn’t ashamed to beg.“I don’t care what happened to him. I can’t leave him. Please, Bobby, I can’t leave him again.”
“And I wouldn’t want you to.” Bobby clamps his hand on Dean’s shoulder, more gently this time. “But we have to think about what’s best for him, here. We don’t wanna traumatize him any further.”
“Bobby, I’d never-”
“No, dumbass, I didn’t mean you’d willingly do it. But think about this for a second. You saw what we did to him with the room, how he panicked. And the way he ran himself ragged before he collapsed in the car. He doesn’t talk. Sure, it could be that he’s just exhausted, but I can’t shake it; this seems to go deeper than that.” He tightens his grip until Dean looks up to him. “I don’t know how much more damage we are doing.”
As Bobby’s words sink in, he recaps the day he spent with Sammy. The kid shaking in the car, hiding under the blankets, flinching away from him. Not looking him in the eyes, not speaking. Of course he doesn’t want to make this worse. He has to get Sammy better; that’s his job. And it’s not exactly like he needed Bobby to spill it out for him. His big brother senses had been tingling all day long. He’d already known this wouldn’t be an easy fix. When Dean stays silent, Bobby walks back to his chair and sits with a grunt. He picks up his own mug, sniffs at it, and takes a swallow.
“Ack!” He looks accusingly first at the mug in his hands, then at Dean. “That’s just nasty,” he mumbles and gets up. He empties both their mugs into the sink, rinses them, and returns to the table. He starts picking up the mess of notes and pictures and arranges them into neat piles. Dean is glad for the chance to arrange his thoughts. Don’t just sit here, all scared, he reprimands himself, be a fucking man about it. He nods to himself. Now that they’ve acknowledged that there is a problem, he can start solving it. It’s like a hunt, really. He has to find out all the details and take it from there. Do research, talk to experts, find a way to make things better. I can do that.
“Ok, you know what? You’re right.” Bobby jerks his head up and a few papers waft back to the table. “We should be thinking about Sam and about what he’s gonna need. So, how about this. Uh. I will research this shit. Trauma and torture and what not. I’ll study fucking psychology if I need to.” Bobby smiles. “But I won’t leave my brother alone in this. Or even worse, at the mercy of some quack.” Bobby’s smile thins a bit, but Dean is having none of it.
“Think about it, Bobby. He must be confused enough as it is. We don’t know what he went through, but he was gone a helluva long time. Lots of shit can happen in nine years. But he can talk to us, right? Nothing too weird for us.”
Bobby nods. “Yeah,” he says.
“Yeah,” Dean repeats, “But what is he supposed to tell some state licensed shrink, huh? He got kidnapped and demons locked him up? Maybe they- maybe he was hurt. And there was a huge white fox that tried to eat his big brother and his kind-of uncle when they finally came for him. But, no worries, they had an angel with them that took it out.” Bobby averts his eyes and Dean smells victory. “All that would get him is a one way ticket to a padded room. You know that! No, Bobby. I can’t let anyone else deal with this. And I don’t wanna, either.”
“This aint gonna be no cakewalk, Dean,” Bobby says, and his voice is somber, “If they had him for all these years- I mean. Who knows- You saw the container, Dean, you saw-” Bobby chokes. “We can try, but-” Dean stares at his hands on the table, at the scar on his left palm and thinks about his brother’s bandaged hands and the jagged line on the side of his face. He feels calm, all of a sudden.
“Don’t you think I know that? But Bobby, don’t you get it?” Dean asks and waits until Bobby looks at him with questioning eyes, “I don’t care. I got him back. He was gone for almost a decade, goddamnit, and I got him back. Sammy is here.” He has to take a minute to savor the taste of that on his tongue. “You and me, Bobby, we got him out,” he marvels, “He’s here and- and I’m with him now. Whatever he needs, wherever he goes, I’ll be there. Not gonna let him go.” The last sentence is spoken quietly. Bobby still doesn’t look happy, though.
“Ok, I understand that.” The older hunter fiddles with some of his notes, and he has averted his eyes again. “But you have to be honest with yourself here, Dean. I mean, forget about hunting.” He shakes his head. “You probably can be glad if he doesn’t wake up screaming every night for the rest of his life. Are you willing to sacrifice all that for him?” Dean doesn’t even have to think about his answer to that.
“Sacrifice what, Bobby? The glory of a hunter’s life? The joy of hightailing it out of some backwater town after saving a bunch of nitwits from the shit they don’t even know exists?” He hears the bitterness in his own voice and wonders how long he’d been carrying that one around with him. But he knows it’s the truth, and this isn’t a spur of the moment thing. He might not have allowed himself to think about this yet, ever. But now that it’s out in the open he thinks about the possibility of leaving the life. Would that be so bad? He peers over at Bobby who returns his look evenly. Of course it wouldn’t, he decides. They’d get by, somehow. They keep sitting in silence and finally Bobby gets up and brews another pot of coffee. Dean glances at the clock in the corner and Bobby, following his line of vision, shrugs.
“Guess we’re not getting much sleep anyway.” True. Dean props his elbows on the table and leans his head against his folded hands. Bobby starts going through the print outs again.
“What if he doesn’t speak?” Dean asks out of the blue. Just because he’ll make things better for Sammy doesn’t mean he’s not worried sick right now.
“I don’t know, son.”
“Do you think they kept him in that container all the time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh,” Dean says suddenly, “what about the containers anyway?”
“Rufus and Caleb are already on it.”
“Did you tell them about-”
“No, of course not.”
“Good,” Dean says, “good.”
Another bout of silence is only interrupted by the shuffling of papers and the drip drip of the coffeemaker on the counter. It’s not a comfortable quiet, though, not for Dean. His thoughts are going a mile an hour. Now that he’s said it aloud, that no, Sammy didn’t come out of this unscathed, another suspicion that had been simmering in the back of his head is screaming for attention. He’d ignored it, had actively refused to go anywhere near it, but now it’s getting bigger and louder. He can’t escape it. It’s going to eat him alive. It’s going to break him, bones and heart and everything. It can’t be, Dean thinks. But what if it is, the voice of doubt keeps insisting, what if?
“What if,” Dean croaks, and buries his face in his hands. He can’t take a deep enough breath through the pain in his chest. It’s true, he thinks before he even asks out loud. He knows it in the wreckage that used to be his sanity and in his ever aching soul. He knows it as he knows nothing else in the world. He bites back a small sob that no one could mistake for a manly cough. He lets out the next.
“Dean?” Bobby sounds freaked, and Dean can’t breathe.
Only this is all his fault, he let them take Sammy and now he has to make this right again. Without Sammy he has nothing left. He feels like dying or maybe he’s already dead. He needs to get a fucking grip. His brother needs him. He closes his eyes. Just out with it, already! It’s not more than a whisper. “What if he doesn’t remember me?”
When Dean looks up into Bobby’s eyes there is no comfort there, only badly concealed pity. Oh god, Dean thinks, he knows it, too.
go back (part seven) || Masterpost || continue (part nine)
Hidden From View. [January 13th, 1999]
Dean.
Dean has no memory of how he got inside. He knows that one moment he stood frozen in front of the door while the world tilted out of its axis. The next, he is shushing his own fluttering fear with nonsensical mental babbling. Because this can’t be his brother, clearly; Sammy had been taken years ago, been gone so long. Just like that, snap of your fingers, and Sammy was gone and now he is here and what are the odds. A blink later he finally - finally - embraces his little brother. He breathes in the precious scent of his hair and his skin and even though it’s different, it’s a good smell altogether and really, he couldn’t expect Sammy not to have changed in all those years, could he. Kids grow and all that shit. Still smells like Sammy, just different. He realizes he’s babbling again, and tells himself to shut up.
He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes and he knows that this is his purpose. If he does nothing else, ever, than hold his brother close and keep him safe, Dean can die a happy man.
“I’ve got you, Sammy. It’s over now, you’re safe. I’ve got you.” Dean feels like bursting. He’s never letting go of Sammy, never again. The vague observation that he or Sam or both of them might be going into shock right now can’t deter him - nothing can.
That’s why it takes his overworked mind a few precious seconds to realize that, although he is not trying to get rid of him, Sam isn’t hugging him back, either. The kid just stands there, arms hanging limp at his sides and heart hammering away alarmingly fast. Dean is close enough to feel it. In the blink of an eye he let’s go and stops the babbling. Mentally as well as verbally. He takes a couple of steps back and looks his brother up and down. Shock be screwed, enter stage adrenalin. Because there’s something wrong here.
“What is it, Sammy? Are you hurt?” Sam doesn’t react. He doesn’t even blink. Dean tries very hard not to go instantly mad with worry. He fails. “Did they hurt you?”
Bobby.
Bobby can’t believe what’s happening. This whole situation is surreal. But he can’t afford to lose his calm, not now and especially not in front of Dean. The boy is coming apart as it is. He’d all but thrown himself at his little brother; clutching him, shaking him, hugging him. He’s talking too, but Bobby is still outside so he doesn’t understand a word. He feels he needs to give the kids this much, a little bit of privacy after what? Seven years, eight? He shakes himself out of his stupor and realizes he’s gawking. His jaw snaps shut. In the container, Dean lets go of Sam - Sam! - and takes a step back. This time, when he speaks Bobby hears it loud and clear.
“Did they hurt you?” Dean asks and oh, dear god. All the images from earlier slam into Bobby’s mind with brutal force. The cot. The books and the medical supplies. Flowers on the microwave. Antibiotics. Bread under the sink. Gauze. Cold meds, shower, defibrillator. Shackles. Tools. Nails. Blood. Torch. Oh god. Torch - Burn dressings. Bobby manages to step out of the brothers’ line of sight before he is violently sick.
Dean is giving Sam some space, as it seems. Bobby still feels nauseous, but that’s not important right now. He is worried. When he’d returned to his post at the door, both boys had still been inside. Sam in the back and Dean in front of him, a few steps away from his brother and with his back to Bobby. Since the container is pitch black except for the shaky beams of their flashlights, Bobby can’t see a goddamned thing.
“Can you get him out?” he asks, not for the first time. His thoughts keep going back to whatever he knows about first aid. It’s a lot but that doesn’t ease his anxiety one bit. He’s glad that Dean had insisted on stocking up the med kit. They’d left the salvage yard in a hurry, but New Castle, Indiana had accommodated a well equipped pharmacy. They should be ready for just about everything. Besides severed limbs, maybe. Or internal injuries. Good god, don’t let it be severed limbs. His fear is ridiculous of course, he has seen Sam already. Not for long, but it was enough to assert that he’d not been gushing arterial blood. Bobby should know better. But they’re still in there and something’s wrong and he can’t friggin’ see.
“You think you can get him out?” He asks again and feels like a fool, “At least there’s some light here. Or do you need something?” Water, med kit, blankets, what? Talk to me, boy!
“No Bobby, thanks.” Dean sounds calm and confident. “Just give us a minute. We- uh.” Balls. Not so confident now.
“We might be a little shocky here. But we’ll come out.” Another pause.
“Right, Sammy? Can you come out with me?” Dean takes a step backwards, then another, and finally there’s Sam again. The kid is obviously scared to death and he’s standing completely still. He’s white as a sheet and he looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. He still holds on to the blanket. Dean takes another step back, eyes never leaving the kid.
“Come on now, Sammy. Out we go.” That does it. Sam blinks a couple of times and he still looks confused as hell, but he follows Dean to the door. Bobby has enough time during their slow progression to check the kid more thoroughly for open wounds and other obvious injuries. He’s relieved to see there aren’t any besides the bandaged hands.
“That’s real good, Sammy.” Dean has reached the door and feels with his foot how deep the step down is. He’s still facing his brother and Sam still isn’t talking. Now that he’s closer, Bobby thinks that the unhealthy skin color might not just be a result of his current medical state. Where the scrawny body isn’t covered in worn sweats, he is white, unsettlingly so.. Like 14th-century-aristocracy, never-see-the-light-of-sun pale.
Sam squints his eyes at the dim gleam that filters in from outside and lowers his head again. Sensitive to light, confusion, shock, Bobby lists in his head. He hopes this might be a head injury. He fears it could be something worse. Sam doesn’t look as if he comprehends what’s going on. The boy is standing in the doorway and examines his surroundings, although he never seems to raise his head. He is thin and small, too small for the, what, fourteen years that he’s now? His clothes are tattered and there’s a hole in his right sleeve, but at least they’re clean. The kid itself is clean too, thank god. Both of his hands are thickly bandaged.
Sam doesn’t ask them what happened. He doesn’t smile at them, he isn’t crying. All he does is stand there and look lost. His face doesn’t show a trace of recognition. The kid doesn’t seem to know who they are. Next to him, Dean tugs gently at Bobby’s arm. “What do we do?”
Bobby carefully lowers his voice to Dean’s volume. “Let’s get him to the car.”
“D’you think he’ll come?” Bobby hesitates. He honestly doesn’t know. But he doesn’t want to stay here any longer than they have to. Two human bodies and a ginormous dead fox are scattered over the grounds. Their angel is gone and who knows when the demon overlord is coming back. Bobby would rather avoid meeting the reinforcements.
“Dunno,” he says truthfully, “but I think we should leave. The sooner the better.” In front of them, Sam stiffens. Dean’s voice becomes gentle in a way Bobby hasn’t heard in years. His heart aches with it.
“It’s gonna be ok, Sammy. You’re safe now. Bobby and me, we’ll take care of you.” Sam doesn’t seem to hear him. He stares through the gap in between their bodies and Bobby could swear the kid just got impossibly paler. Sam’s lips move, but he doesn’t make a sound.
“We’re gonna take you home, Sammy. Don’t worry, ok? Sam? Sammy.” Dean actually snaps his fingers next to the kid’s ear now, but Sam doesn’t even flinch. His fist on the blanket starts clenching and unclenching in an erratic rhythm. His breath picks up speed.
“No. No. No.” Sam whispers, “No. No. No. No.” The utter desperation is his voice is painful just to listen to. Dean’s breath hitches. Bobby zeroes in on Sam. He’s still staring straight ahead and downwards. His face is ashen by now. Bobby slowly turns his head and follows the kid’s gaze. Behind them on the floor is the bloody symbol that Cas drew. Next to it lies the dead kitsune.
“Sam,” Bobby says with all the gentle conviction that he has, “she is dead. Don’t worry. She’s not coming back.” Sam’s eyes roll back in his head and Dean jumps forward before Bobby can string together a coherent thought.
“What the hell,” Dean says and jostles the limp body in his arms to get a better grip on him. Bobby is stumped. Both of them want to get Sam out of there so without further ado Dean carries him to the car. Bobby grabs their flashlights and the discarded weapons and throws them in the duffel bag. Before he hurries after Dean, he snaps a picture of the bloody symbol with his phone. Then he looks back at the container that held Sam and quickly walks back to it. He digs his flashlight out once more and takes a few more pictures of the symbols that are spread all over the floor and the ceiling. At least he’ll have something to research now.
Sam.
The air smells different. He’s lying on something soft. He is warm. He doesn’t move for a couple of breaths and when he carefully opens his eyes, his suspicion is confirmed. He’s not in his Box anymore. Lights are flying by in front of him, street lights. He can see them clearly because he is looking out of a window, a real window. It’s huge.
A sudden rustle to his left draws his attention. He turns his head very slowly and he’s shocked to see another window; and this one’s even bigger. Between the window and himself, someone’s sitting. He hears a murmured conversation and he remembers now. These are the men that opened his Box. The younger one even entered it. The older one is called Bobby. He accounts it to his unfamiliar surroundings that it takes him a whole minute to realize that the fact that he can look out of the windows means that others can look in.
He flinches. This is bad, dangerously bad; it’s not allowed. If people can see him, they aren’t safe from him. Maybe this is some sort of test that he doesn’t understand. Because there is no way he can keep from being noticed, not with windows this big. He takes a closer look around and all the warmth leeches from his body. There’s more of them, he is surrounded by windows, and they are everywhere. He shivers with the sudden tension that grabs hold of him. He tries to be rational about his situation, he knows that that’s the right thing to do. So he recaptures. He doesn’t know these men. His Box is gone; the tall guard is dead. He swallows. Sara is dead. Tears well up in his eyes but he forces himself to ignore them. He will grieve when he is alone again, in the dark. Now he has to figure out what is happening.
Dean.
Every other minute Dean throws an anxious glance to the rearview mirror. He gets that Sammy might be overwhelmed, but it feels like there’s more to all of this. The kid had fucking lost consciousness. He hasn’t said a word except for a few, desperate “No’s”. He hasn’t looked them in the eyes. His gut tells him that something’s seriously wrong.
He’d carried Sam to the car after he fainted, put him in the backseats, and made sure he was comfortable. As soon as Bobby had joined him and their bags were stashed in the trunk, they’d left that wretched place behind. They’ve been on the road for close to three hours and the first tendrils of dawn paint the eastern sky in a slightly lighter shade of grey. Sam still hasn’t spoken although Dean is sure he’s awake by now. He heard the change of breath from deep and calm to tense and forced calm. He stares into the mirror once more and sighs. It’s too fucking dark in here.
Maybe Sammy just needs some time, Dean muses, who knows what the kid’s been through. He can do that; give him time, give him space. No problem. Sammy can adjust to being back where he belongs and Dean will keep him safe from now on. Now way is another demon laying its filthy fingers on him again. Dean frowns. Demons and freaky foxes besides, he still doesn’t know what has happened in that warehouse. Or in the years the kid’s been missing. His frown turns into a full grown scowl. He hopes Sammy will recover quickly from this, whatever this is, now that he’s back with Dean and Bobby. He needs the kid to be talking. Dean needs to know who to kill.
Bobby has turned the radio on low, more for background noise than anything. From time to time they talk in hushed voices, but they touch nothing important. It’s as if they’re holding their breath, biding their time. Dean jerks in his seat with held back nervous energy and Booby shoots him a warning glance. Another look in the mirror confirms that nothing’s changed. Dean huffs frustratedly. Bobby shakes his head at him and Dean rolls his eyes, but he settles back into the passenger seat.
The next twenty minutes turn the world into a shadowy version of itself. It’s more than enough light for Dean to see that Sammy is shivering in the back seat. He has turned up the heat as soon as he noticed, but it hasn’t gotten better. If anything, the kid’s getting worse. The gentle shaking has turned into restless twitching and although Sammy doesn’t make a sound Dean knows he’s uncomfortable. Screw this, Dean thinks. Baby steps. I can do that. He slowly turns around until he is facing the backseat and one clearly miserable little brother. Dean plasters on his most comforting smile and clears his throat.
Sam.
He’s in a car. The day is dawning and the world is getting brighter. So he’s been able to determine that much. He is in a car; and he’s moving again. Also, there is not enough space and not enough shelter. Even when he’d huddled in his blankets at night, he’d always known that his Box was still there. If he’d wanted to, he could have gotten up and walked around. He can’t do that here and that fact seems to have the walls close in on him even more. Also, the sun is rising. At first he thought that the opportunity to see an unlimited sunrise might distract him from the conclusion that he is failing to follow the most basic rules. But then he reminded himself that a sunrise came with more light and thus even less chances of staying hidden. He doesn’t know what to do. If his new guards are anything like the old ones, he will be in a world of Pain later. And this time, Sara won’t be able to patch him up again. The memories of her soft white fur spotted with red assault his mind and he hides his face behind his hands. How did this happen?
He had known that something was up when he’d heard another bout of yelling and scuffling outside. There had been crashes too, and he thought he’d heard Sara’s deep growl at one point. This had happened just a few days after they’d arrived at their new location. Once more he’d tried to prepare himself for the possibility that he could be of assistance to heaven’s plans. Once more no one came for him and the noises died down. Then his new guards had come for him and the next thing he knew was waking up in this car. He hopes these men won’t be as creative as the others, though. Sara is gone. He’ll have to take care of himself now. The younger man turns in his seat as if he’d heard the thoughts behind him.
“Are you cold, Sammy?” he says.
“No,” he whispers back. And he isn’t lying, honest. He doesn’t have his blankets with him, but the car is warmer than anything he’s ever known. He couldn’t get cold if he tried; actually, he’s sweating a little. So he is quite content as far as his temperature is concerned. It’s everything else that has him worried.
Dean
Dean doesn’t know whether to feel angry or desperate. Sammy doesn’t even look at him when he shakes his head at Dean’s question. But then, his little brother doesn’t just shake his head. He’s shaking all over. Yeah, not cold my ass. Let me at least keep you warm buddy, please. Dean clears his throat again and glances to the driver’s seat.
“Bobby, don’t you have some blankets in the trunk?” Bobby’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror now too, and he nods.
“I sure do. Would you like me to stop so you can get them out?” Dean can’t help it, he has to smirk at the formal way they talk. Bobby almost sounds like Cas. But he is so grateful that the man goes along with this that he probably won’t hold it over him later. Much. Dean figures that maybe, if they act out what is happening around Sam, it could alleviate the kid’s fears. It’s definitely preferable to the way Sammy shrinks away from him when Dean addresses the runt directly.
“That would be nice.” Dean points out of the passenger side window. “You can park at the side here for a few seconds, if you don’t mind. Thank you, Bobby.”
Dean feels like a high school drama dork for all the expressive gestures and carefully phrased sentences they are using. But for Sammy he wouldn’t mind playing the priest in Romeo and Juliet or, ok, maybe the lead in Grease, ‘cause come on, have you seen the cars?
Sam.
The car slows down and stops. The younger man has talked about fetching some blankets, but he knows all about not getting one’s hopes up. His previous guards had taught him over and over again, until he understood. So when the man opens the door and gets out of the car, he tries to prepare himself. He isn’t hidden, which deserves Pain. He seems to have agitated the young guard, which definitely will cause Pain. He doesn’t know if all of this is a lesson that he doesn’t understand. If so, that will result in much more Pain. He stops and goes through his mental list once more. Then he nods to himself. He is ready.
The young guard gets back in and turns around to look at him. He doesn’t flinch. He keeps his eyes carefully trained on the man’s chin. A few moments pass and when no Pain is forthcoming, he settles for the long haul; his former guards have taught him well. The new one sighs, a clear sign that he is unhappy.
“Sammy,” the guard says. He stays silent and listens. Another sigh. Clearly he is doing something wrong, he just hasn’t figured out yet how.
“Sammy,” the guard says again, “I can see you shivering from here. Look, lemme-” Yet another sigh. “I’ll just put these blankets here, ok. You can take them if you want.”
The guard actually places two folded up blanket on his knees. There still is no Pain. He stays very still.
“You don’t have to use them,” the guard says, “just- you can, if you want to.”
He doesn’t understand what purpose these blankets fulfill. Where they lie on his knees they are uncomfortably warm. He starts to sweat in earnest now. Maybe this is one of the marathon lessons, as his former guards called them. Lessons that would go on and on while something that wasn’t uncomfortable per se would turn into Pain eventually. That’s probably it.
“Well?” the young guard says.
“Thank you,” he answers ashamed. It’s been years since he had to be reminded of the principles of politeness. He unfolds the blankets one by one and spreads them out. They are really warm.
“You’re welcome,” the guard says and sounds a little surprised. He doesn’t sigh this time. “Now, all the way up to your nose. We don’t want you to catch a cold.”
The door of the car slams shut and they start moving again. He does as he’s been told and pulls the blankets up to his face. He feels sweat starting to soak through his clothes and tries to take deep breaths. He is grateful that he hasn’t been told to cover up all the way, he already- He jerks to realization with a bolt. He is so surprised that he actually stares at the young guard’s head, straight at it. The man is facing the other way, but still. Tears prickle behind his eyes again, and this time he can’t fight them. He feels bad for suspecting Pain when the guard actually has offered him a way to avoid it. His former guards never did that. Or maybe, he wonders now, maybe he just never realized they did.
He pulls the blankets all the way over his face and it’s instantly harder to breathe. Seconds later, the air is warm and moist and stale. He smiles and his heart opens wide at the kindness the young guard has bestowed on him. People are safe from him. He finally is hidden from view.
Dean.
They haven’t stopped for the night or for breakfast. Or lunch. They had to refuel the car a couple of times and they have switched places so Bobby could catch some shut-eye. But apart from that they’ve been on the road nonstop since fucking West Virginia. 15 hours. Dean has learned a lot in this time.
Apparently, Sammy doesn’t do questions. He answers yes or no, he’s really polite, and he is an attentive listener. But anything that requires the boy to string together more than two words is a struggle. Mostly, Sam just stares at them wide-eyed and looks ready to bolt. Only, he doesn’t really stare at them, it’s more like he studies their clothes, their faces, hands and necks. Shoulders seem to be his favorite. But eye contact is a no go. Also, even though he’s clearly uncomfortable, he hasn’t actively tried anything yet. Dean has given him a few opportunities to see how skittish Sammy really is, and he has to admit that he’s confused. His brother is obviously as timid as a startled fawn. But even though he’d left the door been wide open and Dean had stepped away further than necessary at the last gas station, Sammy had stayed in the car. Underneath those freaking blankets. Dean almost wishes he hadn’t gotten them from the trunk. The kid seems to be generally thankful for them, but he’s sweating his ass off. Dean keeps telling him that he doesn’t need to use them, but all that earns him are those freakish stares to his shoulder. Most of the time he doesn’t see hair nor hide from his little brother.
Another thing that Sammy has issues with are choices. Do you want to eat now or later? Would you like water or juice? We can take a break or keep on driving, what would you prefer? Are you sure you don’t want to get rid of the friggin’ blankets? None of these elicit any response other than a slight wrinkle to the kid’s brow. And they haven’t even touched the hard parts yet. Was it the demons or the fucking fox that gave you that scar on your temple? Yeah, that would go well.
The runt is good with orders, though. Ask him if he’s thirsty and he dives into a silent metaphysical debate, but when Dean says, “Drink the water,” than that’s what Sammy does. He doesn’t even have to raise his voice and it’s working with Bobby, too. It’s fucking wrong. The little brother he lost was an inquisitive kid; smart, happy, and easy going. This pale ghost of a boy is nothing like Sammy. Dean feels immediately guilty after thinking that. One look into those eyes is enough to know that this is his kid brother. It’s not Sammy’s fault that he’d been taken all those years ago. It’s not on him that demons and monsters joined forces and decided that Sammy should become honorable member of fucking Club Torture. His brother didn’t pick any of this. And that’s what it comes down to in the end. This is on Dean. His little brother is silent, shy, and scared enough to hide under the covers for 15 fucking hours straight. And it’s Dean’s fault.
When they finally reach the salvage yard, it’s long past noon and Dean is starved. Sammy didn’t know whether he’d prefer a tuna, ham or egg sandwich. Or maybe he did know, but he didn’t say. So Dean had picked them all back up and told Sammy that they’d be waiting for him until he decided. Which is why all three sandwiches still lie neatly wrapped on top of the glove compartment. Bobby went for the tuna a few hours ago, but Dean had said, “I promised he could chose,” and that was that.
But now they are home and Bobby will probably make his famous chili for dinner and things will be fine. Which is why he might be a little impatient when Sammy doesn’t get out of the car. Dean has coaxed the boy successfully to the edge of the seat. But as soon as he tells him to leave the blankets and to get into the house, things go south. Dean asks and orders, calmly and not so calm; he pleads and grumbles and fucking begs. But Sammy won’t budge and Dean feels the urge to hit something. When he finally decides to get back into the car himself and to get to the bottom of things, no matter how long it’ll take, the kid passes out again. This better not be their new routine.
Bobby had been watching their little show from the front porch to give them some space. Now he’s hurrying over and eyes the kid in the back. Sam is still half buried under the two blankets and his skin looks flushed and sweaty. “Maybe he’s just exhausted or dehydrated? He looks drenched.”
Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t do a thing, just wanted him to get inside.”
“Yeah, it might be best to get him outta the heat. Do you think you can carry him upstairs?”
Dean nods and together they get Sammy out of the car. He doesn’t like this one bit. They decide to let him have Dean’s room. When they were younger, they’d both slept in it anyway, and Dean doesn’t mind taking the couch. Dean hopes that the familiar setting might make it easier for Sammy to adjust, but if anything, things get worse. As soon as the kid wakes up, he flinches so hard that he falls off the bed. When Dean tries to catch him, Sammy jerks back and crashes into the nightstand - to get away from him. Dean takes another step forward, he has to see whether Sammy has hurt himself. The sound of bone hitting wood still echoes in his ears. Sam doesn’t acknowledge Dean’s presence, though. He honest to god crawls into the corner between the fucking nightstand and the wall. Then the kid touches his face in a circling motion, then his elbow. Over and over again. Face and elbow. Maybe Dean has done it, maybe he has broken his brother’s sanity.
Bobby, who’d been standing in the doorway, takes his arm and leads him from the room like a damsel in distress. He puts Dean in a kitchen chair and sets a plate of food in front of him. Then he prepares another plate, fills a glass of water and takes them upstairs. When he comes back down he orders Dean to start eating and pours him a fifth of whiskey.
They spend the afternoon in silence. Dean knows they’ll have to talk about this, but he’s thankful for the reprieve. They check on Sammy every hour - well, Bobby does, while Dean might actually sit on the floor outside the door, unmoving. Bobby is great with the kid, too. He keeps up a steady litany of mumbled assurances, doesn’t ask questions, and keeps refilling the water glass. At some point he pulls the curtains closed and gets a spare flannel blanket out of the cabinet in the corridor. Bobby has everything under control. And just in case he hasn’t, Dean is but two seconds away.
Knowledge Of The Disastrous Kind. [January 15th, 1999]
Dean.
It’s long after midnight when Bobby finally breaks the silence and motions Dean to go downstairs. After making sure that his brother is still asleep in the corner behind the bed, Dean follows him into the kitchen and sags into a chair. He burned through all the earlier adrenaline and now he feels like he hasn’t slept in a week. Dean grabs the cup of coffee that he’d ignored earlier and takes a sip. It is cold and bitter and gruesome. How fitting. Bobby lifts his cap and scratches his neck, a tell tale sign of anxiousness. The fact that the man doesn’t even try to hide it tells Dean exactly how screwed they are.
“Listen, Dean,” Bobby says, “I think we need to be honest here. I don’t know what to make of all this.” Dean takes another disgusting sip of coffee. “It might be best to give Sam some time. You know, to get him adjusted at his own speed.” Dean hears a ‘but’ and straightens up.
“But we need answers, too. Fast. I have no idea what we’re dealing with here. And I think we’ll need all the info we can get. On that note: Any word from Cas yet?” Dean puts down the mug and shakes his head.
“Nothing. It must have been quite some mojo he used, though, blowing that demon away like that. Do you think he’s ok?”
“How the hell should I know?” Dean raises his eyebrows at the retort and the older hunter sighs and adjusts his cap once more. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.” He pulls over a folder and some print outs and spreads them over the table.
“I’ve been looking at the symbols that were in that container.”
“When did you manage to do that?” Did Dean mention that Bobby is generally awesome?
“Well, not all of us have been sitting on their thumbs all day long.” Dean flinches guiltily and Bobby groans.
“Sorry, kid. It’s been a hell of a day.”
“I know, Bobby. I’m sorry, too. It’s just- it’s Sammy,” he says as if that would explain everything. It kinda does. Bobby points at the slightly unfocused pictures that he took with his phone.
“Almost all of these are protective sigils of some sort. Of a wild variety of different religions and beliefs.” Dean grabs some of the pictures and examines them more closely.
“Protective sigils,” he repeats, “To keep things in or out?”
“Both, actually. You see the one right behind the door?” Bobby points at one of the more intricate ones. “That’s a devil’s trap. And the big one in middle of the floor is called the Double seal of Solomon.” He pauses and Dean tries not to look annoyed. He’s sure Bobby is going somewhere with this.
“Uh-huh.” Actually, Bobby is going nowhere at all, he just stares at him and Dean feels he has missed his cue. “So?” Bobby rolls his eyes. Yup, missed it for sure.
“So, devil’s traps are used to capture and disarm demons. The seal of Solomon is used to protect against the evil eye and Lilith. It is rumored to have demon controlling abilities as well. And it doesn’t get much more powerful than this double sealed version. This is some serious stuff, Dean.”
“What are lilith?”
“Lilith is not a what, she’s a who. According to lore she’s a children stealing demon.” Bobby nods at Dean’s thoughtful expression. “The one over here gives you control over demons as soon as they set eyes on it, fifth pentacle of something- I have that somewhere here. Of Pluto or something.” Bobby starts digging through his notes. Dean leans back into the chair and starts nibbling at a lose splinter on the edge of the table.
“I’m hearing an awful lot of demons here, Bobby.”
“Yup. I guess it’s a good thing we stocked up on the rock salt.” Bobby tries to sound nonchalant, but Dean isn’t buying it.
“Do you think they would come here? To hurt him? Or kill him?” Dean’s voice has risen half an octave and he clears his throat before he continues, “Maybe we should get him into that panic room of yours.” He scuffs back his chair. Bobby doesn’t move, though.
“He’s been through a lot, son. We can do that when he’s up tomorrow.” Dean nods but he keeps going towards the stairs anyway.
“Hey, we’re not done here,” Bobby says, slightly annoyed and sheepish at the same time. Dean doesn’t like it.
“Sorry man. I just wanted to-” Dean waves at the general upstairs and sits back down. “What else?”
“Uhm.” Nope, doesn’t sound good at all. Dean picks the cup of cold coffee back up and carefully avoids Bobby’s eyes.
“It’s-“ The older hunter starts twisting his pen between his fingers. The moment of silence drags on.
“Sam,” Bobby finally says, “he seems to have some… issues.” Dean levels his gaze at the pen. It’s twirling in the gleam of the kitchen lights and throws silvery reflections on the table.
“I know it’s not even been a day. But, uh. I’m not sure-” The twirling stops. Dean holds his breath.
“He needs to deal with this, Dean,” Bobby finally rushes out, “and I don’t know whether we are the best people to help him there. Now, I know that you don’t wanna leave him outta your sight yet, but maybe he should-” The pen is set down to the table with an air of finality. Dean clangs the coffee pot down hard enough that it’s a miracle it doesn’t shatter on impact.
“He should what, Bobby?” He can see the other man swallow. Dean likes to think that he’s a pretty easy going guy, despite all his emotional baggage. But he’d been wound so tight all day long that it wouldn’t take much to have him blowing up in Bobby’s face. He gets to his feet and positions himself between Bobby and the stairs. Just in case. Primary objective; keep Sammy safe. His eyes flicker over his immediate surroundings as he checks for things that could be used as a weapon. Seeing as they’re in a hunter’s home, things could escalate quite easily as he realizes.
Bobby hasn’t moved yet, but he has followed Dean’s actions closely and now he looks like he came to the exact same conclusion. He raises his hands; tries to appease Dean with the gesture, but the tension cursing through his every muscle doesn’t allow for it. Until he knows whether Sammy is safe and welcome here, not a fucking second of appeasing will happen.
“He should what,” Dean spats out, “Go?” Bobby doesn’t answer and that’s enough of an admittance for Dean.
“For fuck’s sake, Bobby. We don’t even know what happened to him. How can you say that?” Bobby opens his mouth but Dean is seething. He shakes his head at Bobby and at the world in general, for that matter.
“You know what? I don’t care. I don’t give a rats ass what you think. You know nothing. This is Sam that we’re talking about. He’s not going anywhere, not without me.” Bobby opens his mouth again but Dean pushes through. “What the hell are you saying, Bobby? That you don’t want him here? Just say the word and we are gone.” Dean’s voice falters and he hopes that Bobby disagrees. This time though, Bobby just stares at him with an expression he can’t decipher. Fine then! Fuck this. Even if he has nothing, he still has his pride and now he has Sammy, too. He’s the richest man in the world. He’s a fucking Winchester. Who the hell needs Bobby.
“You don’t want us? This is too much for you?” Deans squints his eyes and levels a hard glare at the older man. His mouth is a grim, thin line; red lips pale with the pressure.
“Fuck you, Bobby! We sure don’t want to put you out. You don’t want us here? Fine! We’re leaving.” Bobby gets up in his face so quick that he has cuffed Dean’s neck and given him a vicious shake before Dean has even raised his arms.
“Hey,” he sputters, more surprised than hurt. An angry red colors the older man’s cheeks and Dean is glad that Bobby usually dotes on him. The man is fucking scary in his silent wrath.
“Sit, you stupid moron. I oughta tan your hide for this.” Now it’s Dean’s turn to open his mouth and be glared into submission. “Get your ass seated again, Dean Winchester. Right now!” Dean sits.
“Good. Now hear me out before we both do something we’d regret.” Bobby starts pacing along the kitchen table. “Of course I want you here. You and the kid both.” He scowls accusingly at the younger man. “Moron. You should know better than to think otherwise.” Dean has the good sense to stare at the mess on the kitchen table. Bobby stops in his track and reaches for his shoulder once more. He looks horrified. Dean feels terrible.
“You do know that I want you here, right?” Dean feels a flush rise in his cheeks. He wishes he’d kept his temper in check. This little outbreak has John Winchester written all over it, but this time there is no one to be secretly ashamed of than himself.
“God, I’m sorry, Bobby. You know I know that-” He shakes his head. “You always were-“ His fucking breath hitches and he thinks, Oh swell, all I need is to add a breakdown to the pile of steaming shit that is this day. Good for him that he doesn’t do breakdowns. He takes a deep breath and grabs the cup of coffee again to keep his hands busy.
“It’s just - I just got him back, Bobby.” He doesn’t know how he can say this so Bobby will understand. “I won’t leave him alone again, I can’t. Especially not to deal with this-” He makes an all encompassing wave. “All of this, whatever it is.” He pours all the honesty he can muster into his voice and isn’t ashamed to beg.“I don’t care what happened to him. I can’t leave him. Please, Bobby, I can’t leave him again.”
“And I wouldn’t want you to.” Bobby clamps his hand on Dean’s shoulder, more gently this time. “But we have to think about what’s best for him, here. We don’t wanna traumatize him any further.”
“Bobby, I’d never-”
“No, dumbass, I didn’t mean you’d willingly do it. But think about this for a second. You saw what we did to him with the room, how he panicked. And the way he ran himself ragged before he collapsed in the car. He doesn’t talk. Sure, it could be that he’s just exhausted, but I can’t shake it; this seems to go deeper than that.” He tightens his grip until Dean looks up to him. “I don’t know how much more damage we are doing.”
As Bobby’s words sink in, he recaps the day he spent with Sammy. The kid shaking in the car, hiding under the blankets, flinching away from him. Not looking him in the eyes, not speaking. Of course he doesn’t want to make this worse. He has to get Sammy better; that’s his job. And it’s not exactly like he needed Bobby to spill it out for him. His big brother senses had been tingling all day long. He’d already known this wouldn’t be an easy fix. When Dean stays silent, Bobby walks back to his chair and sits with a grunt. He picks up his own mug, sniffs at it, and takes a swallow.
“Ack!” He looks accusingly first at the mug in his hands, then at Dean. “That’s just nasty,” he mumbles and gets up. He empties both their mugs into the sink, rinses them, and returns to the table. He starts picking up the mess of notes and pictures and arranges them into neat piles. Dean is glad for the chance to arrange his thoughts. Don’t just sit here, all scared, he reprimands himself, be a fucking man about it. He nods to himself. Now that they’ve acknowledged that there is a problem, he can start solving it. It’s like a hunt, really. He has to find out all the details and take it from there. Do research, talk to experts, find a way to make things better. I can do that.
“Ok, you know what? You’re right.” Bobby jerks his head up and a few papers waft back to the table. “We should be thinking about Sam and about what he’s gonna need. So, how about this. Uh. I will research this shit. Trauma and torture and what not. I’ll study fucking psychology if I need to.” Bobby smiles. “But I won’t leave my brother alone in this. Or even worse, at the mercy of some quack.” Bobby’s smile thins a bit, but Dean is having none of it.
“Think about it, Bobby. He must be confused enough as it is. We don’t know what he went through, but he was gone a helluva long time. Lots of shit can happen in nine years. But he can talk to us, right? Nothing too weird for us.”
Bobby nods. “Yeah,” he says.
“Yeah,” Dean repeats, “But what is he supposed to tell some state licensed shrink, huh? He got kidnapped and demons locked him up? Maybe they- maybe he was hurt. And there was a huge white fox that tried to eat his big brother and his kind-of uncle when they finally came for him. But, no worries, they had an angel with them that took it out.” Bobby averts his eyes and Dean smells victory. “All that would get him is a one way ticket to a padded room. You know that! No, Bobby. I can’t let anyone else deal with this. And I don’t wanna, either.”
“This aint gonna be no cakewalk, Dean,” Bobby says, and his voice is somber, “If they had him for all these years- I mean. Who knows- You saw the container, Dean, you saw-” Bobby chokes. “We can try, but-” Dean stares at his hands on the table, at the scar on his left palm and thinks about his brother’s bandaged hands and the jagged line on the side of his face. He feels calm, all of a sudden.
“Don’t you think I know that? But Bobby, don’t you get it?” Dean asks and waits until Bobby looks at him with questioning eyes, “I don’t care. I got him back. He was gone for almost a decade, goddamnit, and I got him back. Sammy is here.” He has to take a minute to savor the taste of that on his tongue. “You and me, Bobby, we got him out,” he marvels, “He’s here and- and I’m with him now. Whatever he needs, wherever he goes, I’ll be there. Not gonna let him go.” The last sentence is spoken quietly. Bobby still doesn’t look happy, though.
“Ok, I understand that.” The older hunter fiddles with some of his notes, and he has averted his eyes again. “But you have to be honest with yourself here, Dean. I mean, forget about hunting.” He shakes his head. “You probably can be glad if he doesn’t wake up screaming every night for the rest of his life. Are you willing to sacrifice all that for him?” Dean doesn’t even have to think about his answer to that.
“Sacrifice what, Bobby? The glory of a hunter’s life? The joy of hightailing it out of some backwater town after saving a bunch of nitwits from the shit they don’t even know exists?” He hears the bitterness in his own voice and wonders how long he’d been carrying that one around with him. But he knows it’s the truth, and this isn’t a spur of the moment thing. He might not have allowed himself to think about this yet, ever. But now that it’s out in the open he thinks about the possibility of leaving the life. Would that be so bad? He peers over at Bobby who returns his look evenly. Of course it wouldn’t, he decides. They’d get by, somehow. They keep sitting in silence and finally Bobby gets up and brews another pot of coffee. Dean glances at the clock in the corner and Bobby, following his line of vision, shrugs.
“Guess we’re not getting much sleep anyway.” True. Dean props his elbows on the table and leans his head against his folded hands. Bobby starts going through the print outs again.
“What if he doesn’t speak?” Dean asks out of the blue. Just because he’ll make things better for Sammy doesn’t mean he’s not worried sick right now.
“I don’t know, son.”
“Do you think they kept him in that container all the time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh,” Dean says suddenly, “what about the containers anyway?”
“Rufus and Caleb are already on it.”
“Did you tell them about-”
“No, of course not.”
“Good,” Dean says, “good.”
Another bout of silence is only interrupted by the shuffling of papers and the drip drip of the coffeemaker on the counter. It’s not a comfortable quiet, though, not for Dean. His thoughts are going a mile an hour. Now that he’s said it aloud, that no, Sammy didn’t come out of this unscathed, another suspicion that had been simmering in the back of his head is screaming for attention. He’d ignored it, had actively refused to go anywhere near it, but now it’s getting bigger and louder. He can’t escape it. It’s going to eat him alive. It’s going to break him, bones and heart and everything. It can’t be, Dean thinks. But what if it is, the voice of doubt keeps insisting, what if?
“What if,” Dean croaks, and buries his face in his hands. He can’t take a deep enough breath through the pain in his chest. It’s true, he thinks before he even asks out loud. He knows it in the wreckage that used to be his sanity and in his ever aching soul. He knows it as he knows nothing else in the world. He bites back a small sob that no one could mistake for a manly cough. He lets out the next.
“Dean?” Bobby sounds freaked, and Dean can’t breathe.
Only this is all his fault, he let them take Sammy and now he has to make this right again. Without Sammy he has nothing left. He feels like dying or maybe he’s already dead. He needs to get a fucking grip. His brother needs him. He closes his eyes. Just out with it, already! It’s not more than a whisper. “What if he doesn’t remember me?”
When Dean looks up into Bobby’s eyes there is no comfort there, only badly concealed pity. Oh god, Dean thinks, he knows it, too.
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