Drifting Apart for phebemarie
Title: Drifting Apart
Author: procne92
Recipient: phebemarie
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Language, attempted spookyness, S5 spoilers, slight proto-slash if you tilt your head to the side
Author's Notes: Thanks to mods for putting this together and Sneha for the beta-ing. Thanks to phebemarie for such kickass prompts.
Summary: Dean Smith takes the promotion.
It takes three days for Dean to decide he needs to call Sam. It takes four days after that for him to work up the courage to.
“Hello?” Sam answers on the third ring, and Dean can’t help but wonder if he screens his calls. Screens them and decides to answer Dean’s. The thought brings a tiny cheerful glow in Dean’s chest that can’t be extinguished.
“Hi! Um, hello. This is Dean. Dean Smith, from Sandover?”
“Dean.” Sam sounds amused. Does he sense how long Dean has been staring at the phone in his hand, rehearsing this? “What’s going on? How are you doing?”
“Oh, fine, fine. I actually just got a promotion. To, uh, Regional Great Lakes Junior Vice-yeah. “ It sounds so inconsequential, saying it out loud.
“That’s great,” says Sam, and it sounds only a little fake in Dean’s ears.
“Thanks.” Dead air. Well, Dean’s job probably does sound pretty unexciting to a guy who is just beginning to embark on his ghostbusting career. Speaking of which… “How are you? Have you found any…projects? Have you been traveling?”
“Oh, no. I still haven’t figured all that out yet. I’m still in town, getting all the financial crap straightened out. What with quitting and all, you know.” Now Sam’s the one who sounds a little uncomfortable.
“Yeah, that was pretty awesome. I heard about you beating up that phone. People are still telling stories, man.” Dean casts about for something to put Sam at ease, because deep down he still remembers his days as a bored intern, dreaming of having the balls to make such a dramatic exit. “Like in Harry Potter, when the Weasley twins escape from Umbridge.”
Sam laughs. “Aren’t you corporate drones supposed to regard the worthless peons who work under you as mere infantry, not congratulate them on fleeing to find meaning in their empty lives?”
“Yeah, well. Most corporate drones don’t consider Ghostfacers.com an appropriate source of self-defense tips.” This whole conversation is going better than Dean could have hoped. Their banter flows freely; it’s like they’re falling into patterns that have been in existence forever. Dean realizes that he damn well enjoys spending time with Sam Wesson, occasional awkwardness aside. The revelation is giddy; there’s no romance or professional challenge here, just the feeling that this man is-well, a friend. A friend Dean doesn’t want to lose. “So, how long you in town for? Want to grab some coffee sometime?”
“Sure!” Sam sounds happy. Is he as into this as Dean is? “I have a week left before I have to vacate my apartment. Tomorrow I have to go argue with the bank, and God knows how long that will take, but the day after, do you want to meet at Dynasty? It’s that new coffee shop on Main and 16th. They aren’t that crowded around 2:30.”
“That sounds great, Sam.” Dean feels relieved that Sam took care of choosing the venue and time. It’s not like he knows a whole lot about quality local eateries, after all, and what with his new bonus, he can afford the occasional lunch hour not spent feverishly maximizing profits. “See you Tuesday.”
“Tuesday,” mutters Sam, and it almost seems like something about the word bothers him. But the note of discomfort vanishes from his voice as he cheerfully says, “Yeah, see you then.”
“He didn’t!” chortles Sam, and Dean flashes his patented shit-eating grin.
“That’s totally what happened. So Jo is standing there just furious, and her prom date is passed out on the couch, and Mom comes back and gives us this ‘what the hell is going on here’ look, and Dad just says, ‘I had to know how easily he bruises.’”
Sam chokes on his coffee and rubs his eyes. “That’s just…wow. I don’t think I can top that.”
“No way, buddy. You’ve been laughing at my dad’s antics for half an hour. It’s your turn to tell me a story.”
Sam shifts uncomfortably. “My dad doesn’t really have any antics worth talking about.”
“Come on!” Dean wheedles. “You’ve gotta have something hilarious to say. I barely know anything about you. Tell me your life story.”
“You do realize that you are now asking for the life story of a person whose long-term career option was until very recently a four-by-four cubicle.”
“Yeah, you look like a pretty interesting guy,” says Dean, waving this aside. “In a little while you’ll be leaving to hunt imaginary things wherever and I’ll probably never see you again. So humor me.”
“When you put it that way…” Sam huffs at Dean exasperatedly. “I don’t get it. What do you want to know about?”
“Well, you moved here a few weeks ago, right? Where did you move from?”
“San Francisco.”
“And had you always lived there?”
“No.”
“How long did you live in San Francisco, Mr. Talkative?”
“I…” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose like he has a headache. “Since college. I went to SFSU with my ex-fiancée.”
“OK, now we’re getting somewhere.” Dean smirks a little. “You went to college with the chick you ended up getting engaged to? I’m sure there’s a good story there.”
Sam snorts. “Maybe I’d be a little more inclined to talk about her if she didn’t get some jerkoff to pretend an animal hospital took her phone number.”
“So you’re not all conspiracy-theory about that now?” asks Dean, a little surprised. Sam doesn’t seem the type to let go of an idea that quickly.
Sam shrugs. “What would even be the point, you know? I know who I am right now, I’ve got a future that involves doing something important and not just asking people if they’ve turned their printers off and then on, so…if this is some cosmic joke, then I guess whoever played it is laughing their ass off.”
Something to think about. Dean and Sam stare at each other for a little while before Dean shakes himself and realizes that the topic has strayed. “Back to you, Sam Wesson. Where did you live before college?”
Sam looks vaguely irritated. “Why do you want to know so badly? Why are you interrogating me?”
Dean considers this, realizes he has no good reason on hand. “I just want to know.”
Sam raises his eyebrows but lets it pass. “If you must know, I didn’t really live anywhere. I kind of have experience with the whole road-trip lifestyle.”
“Really?” says Dean, thrown for a loop.
“Yeah. Since I can remember.”
“What, your whole family just traveled around in a station wagon?” asks Dean incredulously.
“My whole family,” laughs Sam. “It was just me and my dad. So yeah, everyone.” Not giving Dean any time to recover from this little announcement, he added, “And it wasn’t a station wagon. This ancient gas-guzzler, a Chevy Impala. It was literally fourteen years older than me.”
“Sounds rusty,” says Dean, shell-shocked.
“Yeah. You know, the weird thing is that I hated it. When I was growing up. I hated the skanky motels and the food from gas stations and the sound of the engine and everything,” says Sam meditatively. “Couldn’t stand it. But soon I’m going to take off and start living that same way, hunting ghosts.”
“Why?” asks Dean, who wouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point.
“That’s the thing. I don’t know. All I know is that it doesn’t bother me anymore. It’s almost like something happened that changed my mind or something and then I forgot about it. It’s weird.”
“I don’t think we should talk about this,” says Dean.
“Why not?” asks Sam cooly. “Do you want to forget that ghosts exist? Or that I’ll be hunting them by myself?”
I want to forget that the more I think about doing this, the less I mind, thinks Dean. Greasy food and all, he can’t deny that a part of him is saying yes this is right as Sam speaks. “What are you talking about?”
“Dean, do you want to come with me?”
Dead silence. Realistically, Dean imagines that the other people in the little café are going about their business without paying attention to the supernatural drama taking place at the table in the northeast corner, but it seems for now that time is stopped, that pins would echo in the vacuum between Sam and Dean.
Finally Dean breaks the silence. “No. Sorry. No.”
Sam nods and gets up as if in slow motion. Dean rises as well and follows him to the door. As he leaves, Sam offers Dean a wry smile and then sets off down the street without another glance. Dean starts walking in the other direction, trying to picture only Sandover’s newest acquisition in his head, trying to ignore the horrible feeling curdling in his gut.
“Mr. Smith?” an unfamiliar voice requests, and Dean inwardly curses his fate. Knowing his luck, he’ll have put a very important conference call on hold for some telemarketer.
“Yes, can we make this quick? I’m very busy,” he chants, trying to control his temper. It’s not some poor bastard’s fault that his current client has a God complex.
“This is Pittsburgh Clinic. You were listed as an emergency contact for one Sam Wesson. Have we reached the right person?”
“Yes,” says Dean, insides shriveled up tiny and dismal. His heart hits the inside of his ribcage with a splashing sound. “What happened?”
“Well, Mr. Wesson is stable. He has…” Dean’s mind whirrs as the disembodied voice lists a litany of breaks and contusions, ending with “so don’t worry, Mr. Smith, he’ll be fine, but we’re legally obligated to-“
“It’s OK, I’ll be there in three hours,” says Dean, and switches the conference call off hold. Corporate instincts functioning as sharply as ever, he says sweetly to the advertizing magnates and coworkers the line, “I’m sorry, but I have to handle an emergency,” and hangs up.
The car ride is plenty of time for Dean to get his thoughts in order, for him to catch up with himself. It’s been a month since he’s even spoken to Sam Wesson. And somehow Sam still provokes that get-up-and-go response, the instant protective instinct. It’s strange that Dean is on the interstate before it even occurs to him to ask himself why he’s going this far for an almost stranger. He can’t think of an answer, and dark thoughts pursue him through Ohio to Pennsylvania.
At the clinic, which is about the size of a warehouse, Dean tells the man at the front desk who he is and is given directions to Sam. Dean has always considered himself pretty good at controlling his nerves, but walking past rows and rows of sick people on his way to meet a friend with as of yet unseen levels of injury is not helping him stay rational. His wild thoughts chase him through the hospital so fast that he forgets to ask himself why he cares so much.
Finally, with a rush of relief, Dean catches sight of Sam., who is blessedly alive, conscious, and not bruised over more than 25% of his face. Sam’s eyes light up when he sees Dean. “Holy crap, I totally wasn’t expecting you to be here!”
“Flattering,” grumbles Dean, but really he’s trying to get a handle on his inappropriate concern. “Drive here from Cleveland and that’s what I get.”
“Shut up, I’m injured,” says Sam without heat. “No, really. Thanks for coming.”
“No problem,” says Dean. Because I would have gone crazy if I didn’t come. For some reason. Changing the subject, now. “So how did this crap happen?”
Sam glances conspiratorially around to see if anyone was in listening distance. Those who are have stethoscopes or dying relatives. Sam lowers his voice. “There are these things I learned about, called poltergeists?” Dean vaguely recalls a movie of that name, but decides that isn’t relevant to mention. “Yeah. They’re real, and they like to throw people into walls.”
“So they’re not regular ghosts?” asks Dean, interested in spite of himself.
“No,” says Sam, clearly relishing this moment of being Professor Ghost to Dean. “They don’t have bones or anything to burn. You have to do a special purification ritual to get rid of them.”
“That sounds nasty,” says Dean. “And complicated. Where do you learn that stuff?”
“There was this old lady I met in Kansas,” says Sam. “Lawrence, my hometown, actually. That was kind of creepy. But she knew all about this stuff, gave me a whole bunch of rituals and herbs and even some exorcisms.”
“Exorcisms? For what?”
“Demons.” Sam waves the thought away. “She was old. She might have been senile. That part probably isn’t true. But anyway, I took what she showed me about poltergeists and tried to use it on this one in South Park-I know, it’s a real town around here-except it kind of got me first.”
“Holy crap,” says Dean, a little helplessly. Demons. Rituals. Creepy old ladies. “You’re not messing around here, Sam.”
“I’m not,” says Sam. “Last week I saved a guy from getting decapitated by his possessed lawnmower. Week before that I got rid of the ghost of a rapist in Bryn Mawr. This stuff is happening, Dean. It’s happening a lot.”
Dean pulls up a chair. “So it’s not just ghosts? There are…other things too?”
Sam nods.
“Sam, this is real. This is real.”
Sam smirks wryly. “So I’ve been telling you.”
What does Dean need to say to Sam that’s so important? He doesn’t know, but whatever it is, it’s clawing at his insides like an angry spider. “Sam. This is a big deal. It’s serious.”
Sam squints exasperatedly. “Are you going to sit there and repeat the same thing over and over? Because if you are, I’d appreciate if you did it more quietly.”
Whatever incoherent feelings have been bouncing around inside of Dean finally find an exit. “You got hurt,” Dean blurts. “You’re in the hospital and you’re uninsured and this is just going to keep happening because all this evil shit, it’s dangerous.”
Sam stares without saying anything.
“It’s dangerous, don’t tell me it’s not because it is, it’s just plain risky. Too risky. Don’t do this, Sam.”
“But, Dean…” Sam forms the words slowly and quietly. “I have to do this. It’s what I’m meant to do.”
“No, you’re not, Sam, you’re not. You’re just some poor bastard who’s gotten suckered into spending his life killing one evil son of a bitch after another until one of them gets you first. Which almost happened today.”
“Dean,” huffs Sam, “this is important. Do you think I don’t know the danger here? That doctors haven’t been telling me since I woke up how close it was? But I’m saving people, maybe slowly, maybe not many, but I’m making a difference. Do you know how that feels? I used to get paid minimum wage for telling people to restart their printers, and now I save lives.”
Dean’s mouth is dry. “I know, Sam, I see that, but you still-“
“No, I don’t think you do see. What do you do? Track the progress of theoretical money all day? How could you possibly understand what it means to be a hunter?”
Ouch. That one hurts a little. “You’ve only been a ‘hunter’ for less than a month, smartass,” snarls Dean. “Excuse me if I choose living a happy life over acting like a sociopath and hunting down things that don’t exist.”
“But are you really happy, Dean?” Sam shook his head distractedly. “Never mind. This isn’t where I was trying to go in this conversation. Sorry. “
Dean feels dried and wrung out. “Sam. I get that this feels important. Really. My sister’s a firefighter.” Why did he just bring Jo into the conversation? That part of his life feels so hazy and removed now. “But sometimes things are so dangerous that they’re not even worth doing. Like firefighting without a hose, which is suicide. And all the worth of a ‘hunting’ lifestyle gets canceled out if four weeks in you get killed by some poltergeist.”
“But Dean, if I’m smart about it I won’t get killed!”
“Oh, get real, Sam!” Dean runs his hands through his hair. “You’re a novice hunter, you’ve got a month of experience grand total, you’ll be recovering from this for at least another month, and you just want to walk into haunted houses alone to be at the mercy of whatever spirit you’re trying to kill.”
“Dean.” Sam has the look of one trying to explain the painfully obvious to an otherwise brilliant person. “I won’t be alone.”
Surprise drops the floor from under Dean. “What?”
A short man with flamboyantly gelled hair waltzes into their corner of the ward. “I was listening and I figured that was my cue! I’m Gabe Adler. Nice to meet you.”
“Dean Smith,” says Dean, shaking the offered hand, blindsided by so much in that moment that he can’t really decide what to freak out about first. There’s just something strange about this guy, even besides… Adler?
“I heard you guys talking about hunting,” says Gabe. “Sure, it’s dangerous. But that’s why it’s important to have backup.”
Sam gives Dean a look, raised eyebrows shouting, “You see?” Dean sees, but he can’t get his boss’ unctuous grin out of his mind.
“I had a partner,” continues Gabe, “but she stopped hunting so I had to find a new one. So I heard about the South Park poltergeist, decided to stake it out. I figured at some point some other hunter would come along and I’d go with them or they’d point me toward someone.”
“Meanwhile, I was in there getting my ass kicked,” says Sam with a self-deprecating laugh.
“So as soon as Sam here gets his lazy ass out of bed,” smirks Gabe, “we’re gonna go hunt some demons.”
“Are you related to Zach Adler?” asks Dean, but what he really means is I don’t trust you.
“Why, you know him?” Dean nods. “Well, don’t tell him you saw me. If I could choose not to be related to that smarmy bastard, I would.”
Dean doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He doesn’t even want to touch the notion that Mr. Adler may be connected to ‘hunting’ through this strange relative. “So. Hunting partners.”
“Yeah,” says Sam. “You don’t have to worry, Dean. Gabe has been hunting for years.”
“Yeah, OK. Right,” says Dean. “Look, I could use a cup of coffee-“
“I’ll show you where the cafeteria is,” says Gabe smoothly. Sam yawns a little and motions at them to go ahead.
In the middle of a long hallway Gabe stops dead and turns to Dean, seriousness written all over his features. “I know a thing or two about you, Dean.”
“That so?” says Dean in what he hopes is a casual voice, although something deep inside of him is trembling.
“I know that you’re not living your own life.”
“You think?” asks Dean. He means it to be snarky, but it comes out in a tiny, horrible voice he doesn’t believe is his own.
Gabe’s stare bores into Dean. “You aren’t where you should be. Where they say you should be. I don’t much like it and I don’t blame you for not liking it either, but this is the way it has to be so you might as well get used to it.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” There’s something about this man. There is something about this man that makes Dean want to curl up and hide under a blanket. Dean backs away slowly.
“You will soon enough,” says Gabe quietly, dark eyes following Dean down the hallway. “Soon enough.”
Dean doesn’t bother hiding his shudder. He slams through the emergency exit door, unlocks his car and drives back to Cleveland, just barely making the dinner meeting he has that night. He never sees Sam Wesson again.
Author: procne92
Recipient: phebemarie
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Language, attempted spookyness, S5 spoilers, slight proto-slash if you tilt your head to the side
Author's Notes: Thanks to mods for putting this together and Sneha for the beta-ing. Thanks to phebemarie for such kickass prompts.
Summary: Dean Smith takes the promotion.
It takes three days for Dean to decide he needs to call Sam. It takes four days after that for him to work up the courage to.
“Hello?” Sam answers on the third ring, and Dean can’t help but wonder if he screens his calls. Screens them and decides to answer Dean’s. The thought brings a tiny cheerful glow in Dean’s chest that can’t be extinguished.
“Hi! Um, hello. This is Dean. Dean Smith, from Sandover?”
“Dean.” Sam sounds amused. Does he sense how long Dean has been staring at the phone in his hand, rehearsing this? “What’s going on? How are you doing?”
“Oh, fine, fine. I actually just got a promotion. To, uh, Regional Great Lakes Junior Vice-yeah. “ It sounds so inconsequential, saying it out loud.
“That’s great,” says Sam, and it sounds only a little fake in Dean’s ears.
“Thanks.” Dead air. Well, Dean’s job probably does sound pretty unexciting to a guy who is just beginning to embark on his ghostbusting career. Speaking of which… “How are you? Have you found any…projects? Have you been traveling?”
“Oh, no. I still haven’t figured all that out yet. I’m still in town, getting all the financial crap straightened out. What with quitting and all, you know.” Now Sam’s the one who sounds a little uncomfortable.
“Yeah, that was pretty awesome. I heard about you beating up that phone. People are still telling stories, man.” Dean casts about for something to put Sam at ease, because deep down he still remembers his days as a bored intern, dreaming of having the balls to make such a dramatic exit. “Like in Harry Potter, when the Weasley twins escape from Umbridge.”
Sam laughs. “Aren’t you corporate drones supposed to regard the worthless peons who work under you as mere infantry, not congratulate them on fleeing to find meaning in their empty lives?”
“Yeah, well. Most corporate drones don’t consider Ghostfacers.com an appropriate source of self-defense tips.” This whole conversation is going better than Dean could have hoped. Their banter flows freely; it’s like they’re falling into patterns that have been in existence forever. Dean realizes that he damn well enjoys spending time with Sam Wesson, occasional awkwardness aside. The revelation is giddy; there’s no romance or professional challenge here, just the feeling that this man is-well, a friend. A friend Dean doesn’t want to lose. “So, how long you in town for? Want to grab some coffee sometime?”
“Sure!” Sam sounds happy. Is he as into this as Dean is? “I have a week left before I have to vacate my apartment. Tomorrow I have to go argue with the bank, and God knows how long that will take, but the day after, do you want to meet at Dynasty? It’s that new coffee shop on Main and 16th. They aren’t that crowded around 2:30.”
“That sounds great, Sam.” Dean feels relieved that Sam took care of choosing the venue and time. It’s not like he knows a whole lot about quality local eateries, after all, and what with his new bonus, he can afford the occasional lunch hour not spent feverishly maximizing profits. “See you Tuesday.”
“Tuesday,” mutters Sam, and it almost seems like something about the word bothers him. But the note of discomfort vanishes from his voice as he cheerfully says, “Yeah, see you then.”
“He didn’t!” chortles Sam, and Dean flashes his patented shit-eating grin.
“That’s totally what happened. So Jo is standing there just furious, and her prom date is passed out on the couch, and Mom comes back and gives us this ‘what the hell is going on here’ look, and Dad just says, ‘I had to know how easily he bruises.’”
Sam chokes on his coffee and rubs his eyes. “That’s just…wow. I don’t think I can top that.”
“No way, buddy. You’ve been laughing at my dad’s antics for half an hour. It’s your turn to tell me a story.”
Sam shifts uncomfortably. “My dad doesn’t really have any antics worth talking about.”
“Come on!” Dean wheedles. “You’ve gotta have something hilarious to say. I barely know anything about you. Tell me your life story.”
“You do realize that you are now asking for the life story of a person whose long-term career option was until very recently a four-by-four cubicle.”
“Yeah, you look like a pretty interesting guy,” says Dean, waving this aside. “In a little while you’ll be leaving to hunt imaginary things wherever and I’ll probably never see you again. So humor me.”
“When you put it that way…” Sam huffs at Dean exasperatedly. “I don’t get it. What do you want to know about?”
“Well, you moved here a few weeks ago, right? Where did you move from?”
“San Francisco.”
“And had you always lived there?”
“No.”
“How long did you live in San Francisco, Mr. Talkative?”
“I…” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose like he has a headache. “Since college. I went to SFSU with my ex-fiancée.”
“OK, now we’re getting somewhere.” Dean smirks a little. “You went to college with the chick you ended up getting engaged to? I’m sure there’s a good story there.”
Sam snorts. “Maybe I’d be a little more inclined to talk about her if she didn’t get some jerkoff to pretend an animal hospital took her phone number.”
“So you’re not all conspiracy-theory about that now?” asks Dean, a little surprised. Sam doesn’t seem the type to let go of an idea that quickly.
Sam shrugs. “What would even be the point, you know? I know who I am right now, I’ve got a future that involves doing something important and not just asking people if they’ve turned their printers off and then on, so…if this is some cosmic joke, then I guess whoever played it is laughing their ass off.”
Something to think about. Dean and Sam stare at each other for a little while before Dean shakes himself and realizes that the topic has strayed. “Back to you, Sam Wesson. Where did you live before college?”
Sam looks vaguely irritated. “Why do you want to know so badly? Why are you interrogating me?”
Dean considers this, realizes he has no good reason on hand. “I just want to know.”
Sam raises his eyebrows but lets it pass. “If you must know, I didn’t really live anywhere. I kind of have experience with the whole road-trip lifestyle.”
“Really?” says Dean, thrown for a loop.
“Yeah. Since I can remember.”
“What, your whole family just traveled around in a station wagon?” asks Dean incredulously.
“My whole family,” laughs Sam. “It was just me and my dad. So yeah, everyone.” Not giving Dean any time to recover from this little announcement, he added, “And it wasn’t a station wagon. This ancient gas-guzzler, a Chevy Impala. It was literally fourteen years older than me.”
“Sounds rusty,” says Dean, shell-shocked.
“Yeah. You know, the weird thing is that I hated it. When I was growing up. I hated the skanky motels and the food from gas stations and the sound of the engine and everything,” says Sam meditatively. “Couldn’t stand it. But soon I’m going to take off and start living that same way, hunting ghosts.”
“Why?” asks Dean, who wouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point.
“That’s the thing. I don’t know. All I know is that it doesn’t bother me anymore. It’s almost like something happened that changed my mind or something and then I forgot about it. It’s weird.”
“I don’t think we should talk about this,” says Dean.
“Why not?” asks Sam cooly. “Do you want to forget that ghosts exist? Or that I’ll be hunting them by myself?”
I want to forget that the more I think about doing this, the less I mind, thinks Dean. Greasy food and all, he can’t deny that a part of him is saying yes this is right as Sam speaks. “What are you talking about?”
“Dean, do you want to come with me?”
Dead silence. Realistically, Dean imagines that the other people in the little café are going about their business without paying attention to the supernatural drama taking place at the table in the northeast corner, but it seems for now that time is stopped, that pins would echo in the vacuum between Sam and Dean.
Finally Dean breaks the silence. “No. Sorry. No.”
Sam nods and gets up as if in slow motion. Dean rises as well and follows him to the door. As he leaves, Sam offers Dean a wry smile and then sets off down the street without another glance. Dean starts walking in the other direction, trying to picture only Sandover’s newest acquisition in his head, trying to ignore the horrible feeling curdling in his gut.
“Mr. Smith?” an unfamiliar voice requests, and Dean inwardly curses his fate. Knowing his luck, he’ll have put a very important conference call on hold for some telemarketer.
“Yes, can we make this quick? I’m very busy,” he chants, trying to control his temper. It’s not some poor bastard’s fault that his current client has a God complex.
“This is Pittsburgh Clinic. You were listed as an emergency contact for one Sam Wesson. Have we reached the right person?”
“Yes,” says Dean, insides shriveled up tiny and dismal. His heart hits the inside of his ribcage with a splashing sound. “What happened?”
“Well, Mr. Wesson is stable. He has…” Dean’s mind whirrs as the disembodied voice lists a litany of breaks and contusions, ending with “so don’t worry, Mr. Smith, he’ll be fine, but we’re legally obligated to-“
“It’s OK, I’ll be there in three hours,” says Dean, and switches the conference call off hold. Corporate instincts functioning as sharply as ever, he says sweetly to the advertizing magnates and coworkers the line, “I’m sorry, but I have to handle an emergency,” and hangs up.
The car ride is plenty of time for Dean to get his thoughts in order, for him to catch up with himself. It’s been a month since he’s even spoken to Sam Wesson. And somehow Sam still provokes that get-up-and-go response, the instant protective instinct. It’s strange that Dean is on the interstate before it even occurs to him to ask himself why he’s going this far for an almost stranger. He can’t think of an answer, and dark thoughts pursue him through Ohio to Pennsylvania.
At the clinic, which is about the size of a warehouse, Dean tells the man at the front desk who he is and is given directions to Sam. Dean has always considered himself pretty good at controlling his nerves, but walking past rows and rows of sick people on his way to meet a friend with as of yet unseen levels of injury is not helping him stay rational. His wild thoughts chase him through the hospital so fast that he forgets to ask himself why he cares so much.
Finally, with a rush of relief, Dean catches sight of Sam., who is blessedly alive, conscious, and not bruised over more than 25% of his face. Sam’s eyes light up when he sees Dean. “Holy crap, I totally wasn’t expecting you to be here!”
“Flattering,” grumbles Dean, but really he’s trying to get a handle on his inappropriate concern. “Drive here from Cleveland and that’s what I get.”
“Shut up, I’m injured,” says Sam without heat. “No, really. Thanks for coming.”
“No problem,” says Dean. Because I would have gone crazy if I didn’t come. For some reason. Changing the subject, now. “So how did this crap happen?”
Sam glances conspiratorially around to see if anyone was in listening distance. Those who are have stethoscopes or dying relatives. Sam lowers his voice. “There are these things I learned about, called poltergeists?” Dean vaguely recalls a movie of that name, but decides that isn’t relevant to mention. “Yeah. They’re real, and they like to throw people into walls.”
“So they’re not regular ghosts?” asks Dean, interested in spite of himself.
“No,” says Sam, clearly relishing this moment of being Professor Ghost to Dean. “They don’t have bones or anything to burn. You have to do a special purification ritual to get rid of them.”
“That sounds nasty,” says Dean. “And complicated. Where do you learn that stuff?”
“There was this old lady I met in Kansas,” says Sam. “Lawrence, my hometown, actually. That was kind of creepy. But she knew all about this stuff, gave me a whole bunch of rituals and herbs and even some exorcisms.”
“Exorcisms? For what?”
“Demons.” Sam waves the thought away. “She was old. She might have been senile. That part probably isn’t true. But anyway, I took what she showed me about poltergeists and tried to use it on this one in South Park-I know, it’s a real town around here-except it kind of got me first.”
“Holy crap,” says Dean, a little helplessly. Demons. Rituals. Creepy old ladies. “You’re not messing around here, Sam.”
“I’m not,” says Sam. “Last week I saved a guy from getting decapitated by his possessed lawnmower. Week before that I got rid of the ghost of a rapist in Bryn Mawr. This stuff is happening, Dean. It’s happening a lot.”
Dean pulls up a chair. “So it’s not just ghosts? There are…other things too?”
Sam nods.
“Sam, this is real. This is real.”
Sam smirks wryly. “So I’ve been telling you.”
What does Dean need to say to Sam that’s so important? He doesn’t know, but whatever it is, it’s clawing at his insides like an angry spider. “Sam. This is a big deal. It’s serious.”
Sam squints exasperatedly. “Are you going to sit there and repeat the same thing over and over? Because if you are, I’d appreciate if you did it more quietly.”
Whatever incoherent feelings have been bouncing around inside of Dean finally find an exit. “You got hurt,” Dean blurts. “You’re in the hospital and you’re uninsured and this is just going to keep happening because all this evil shit, it’s dangerous.”
Sam stares without saying anything.
“It’s dangerous, don’t tell me it’s not because it is, it’s just plain risky. Too risky. Don’t do this, Sam.”
“But, Dean…” Sam forms the words slowly and quietly. “I have to do this. It’s what I’m meant to do.”
“No, you’re not, Sam, you’re not. You’re just some poor bastard who’s gotten suckered into spending his life killing one evil son of a bitch after another until one of them gets you first. Which almost happened today.”
“Dean,” huffs Sam, “this is important. Do you think I don’t know the danger here? That doctors haven’t been telling me since I woke up how close it was? But I’m saving people, maybe slowly, maybe not many, but I’m making a difference. Do you know how that feels? I used to get paid minimum wage for telling people to restart their printers, and now I save lives.”
Dean’s mouth is dry. “I know, Sam, I see that, but you still-“
“No, I don’t think you do see. What do you do? Track the progress of theoretical money all day? How could you possibly understand what it means to be a hunter?”
Ouch. That one hurts a little. “You’ve only been a ‘hunter’ for less than a month, smartass,” snarls Dean. “Excuse me if I choose living a happy life over acting like a sociopath and hunting down things that don’t exist.”
“But are you really happy, Dean?” Sam shook his head distractedly. “Never mind. This isn’t where I was trying to go in this conversation. Sorry. “
Dean feels dried and wrung out. “Sam. I get that this feels important. Really. My sister’s a firefighter.” Why did he just bring Jo into the conversation? That part of his life feels so hazy and removed now. “But sometimes things are so dangerous that they’re not even worth doing. Like firefighting without a hose, which is suicide. And all the worth of a ‘hunting’ lifestyle gets canceled out if four weeks in you get killed by some poltergeist.”
“But Dean, if I’m smart about it I won’t get killed!”
“Oh, get real, Sam!” Dean runs his hands through his hair. “You’re a novice hunter, you’ve got a month of experience grand total, you’ll be recovering from this for at least another month, and you just want to walk into haunted houses alone to be at the mercy of whatever spirit you’re trying to kill.”
“Dean.” Sam has the look of one trying to explain the painfully obvious to an otherwise brilliant person. “I won’t be alone.”
Surprise drops the floor from under Dean. “What?”
A short man with flamboyantly gelled hair waltzes into their corner of the ward. “I was listening and I figured that was my cue! I’m Gabe Adler. Nice to meet you.”
“Dean Smith,” says Dean, shaking the offered hand, blindsided by so much in that moment that he can’t really decide what to freak out about first. There’s just something strange about this guy, even besides… Adler?
“I heard you guys talking about hunting,” says Gabe. “Sure, it’s dangerous. But that’s why it’s important to have backup.”
Sam gives Dean a look, raised eyebrows shouting, “You see?” Dean sees, but he can’t get his boss’ unctuous grin out of his mind.
“I had a partner,” continues Gabe, “but she stopped hunting so I had to find a new one. So I heard about the South Park poltergeist, decided to stake it out. I figured at some point some other hunter would come along and I’d go with them or they’d point me toward someone.”
“Meanwhile, I was in there getting my ass kicked,” says Sam with a self-deprecating laugh.
“So as soon as Sam here gets his lazy ass out of bed,” smirks Gabe, “we’re gonna go hunt some demons.”
“Are you related to Zach Adler?” asks Dean, but what he really means is I don’t trust you.
“Why, you know him?” Dean nods. “Well, don’t tell him you saw me. If I could choose not to be related to that smarmy bastard, I would.”
Dean doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He doesn’t even want to touch the notion that Mr. Adler may be connected to ‘hunting’ through this strange relative. “So. Hunting partners.”
“Yeah,” says Sam. “You don’t have to worry, Dean. Gabe has been hunting for years.”
“Yeah, OK. Right,” says Dean. “Look, I could use a cup of coffee-“
“I’ll show you where the cafeteria is,” says Gabe smoothly. Sam yawns a little and motions at them to go ahead.
In the middle of a long hallway Gabe stops dead and turns to Dean, seriousness written all over his features. “I know a thing or two about you, Dean.”
“That so?” says Dean in what he hopes is a casual voice, although something deep inside of him is trembling.
“I know that you’re not living your own life.”
“You think?” asks Dean. He means it to be snarky, but it comes out in a tiny, horrible voice he doesn’t believe is his own.
Gabe’s stare bores into Dean. “You aren’t where you should be. Where they say you should be. I don’t much like it and I don’t blame you for not liking it either, but this is the way it has to be so you might as well get used to it.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” There’s something about this man. There is something about this man that makes Dean want to curl up and hide under a blanket. Dean backs away slowly.
“You will soon enough,” says Gabe quietly, dark eyes following Dean down the hallway. “Soon enough.”
Dean doesn’t bother hiding his shudder. He slams through the emergency exit door, unlocks his car and drives back to Cleveland, just barely making the dinner meeting he has that night. He never sees Sam Wesson again.