SN Fic: Since They've Been Gone (4/4)

[thatgirlsix]

 
Supernatural Fic: Since They've Been Gone

Summary: John Winchester wasn't the only soldier they lost that week. Sometimes being a good son and doing your duty really sucks.

Disclaimer:  Maybe when the student loan sharks have stopped calling me forty years from now, there might be something left in my pockets besides lint to buy myself the copyright. Until then, this is just for fun, folks!

Author's Note: This piece is too long to post in one entry, so it's getting four (silly word limits).  / The writing in this story is a little more experimental for me than usual. Hopefully it worked out. / As always, this is a MarySue-free zone. If you are less than mad at Al by the end of this, I didn't do it right.  / Rated PG13 for implied violence and language (because I've been married to the military too long not to have a mouth).

This story takes place between "No Exit" and "The Usual Suspects".

Thanks for reading, kiddos!



Since They've Been Gone

Love lost, such a cost
Give me things that don't get lost.

Dean stuck his shovel into the dirt, dark scowl on his face. He was aching already, which really had not been the plan for the day at all. In his mind, they were supposed to be knocking back a few at the bar on the other outside of town until Al was too drunk to stand. They were going to bring her home, put her to bed, and in the morning find their way to their goodbyes. They were supposed to be toasting Caleb and Jim and their father, all three of them drowning their grief uselessly in beer and tequila because that was how they had all grown accustomed to doing it. Years of hunting had turned them all that way. But that wasn't what they were doing. It wasn't even close.

Three feet down in the ground now, Dean grumbled all too loudly, "This is ten different kinds of fucked up, you know that?"

"How? You dig a grave up at least once every other week in a bad month," Al pointed out from her perch on the boulder that was to be her headstone.

"Yeah, well, Casper isn't usually sitting right there watching me do it."

"DEAN!" snapped Sam.

"Don't get all bashful on me now, cowboy," said Al, excusing the comment with a bright smile that Dean almost remembered seeing on her face before. No ghostly smile could ever be as honest as the ones she used to have, especially when she thought Caleb wasn't looking. Even in these last few hours, Dean knew he wasn't going to be seeing that smile ever again, before or after. Still, she was trying her damnedest, that's for sure. "I've seen you in much more compromising positions than this."

Forgetting for the briefest of moments that his friend was dead and not just sitting there having a normal conversation with them, Sam blurted, "You have?"

Al smiled again, defiant, as Dean shot her a warning look. To Sam, she happily relayed, "One night, probably three years ago or so, your knucklehead brother swings by with your dad completely torn to hell. When they finally got him cleaned up and knocked out for the night, the two of them leave me alone with him so that they can go get trashed over at the Bend in the Road. I could have killed them. They had the sense to call me and not drive home, which I was grateful for, until I get there. They wanted ice cream. They wanted ice cream and they wanted it badly. They managed to get us kicked out of Betty Jean's after they proceeded to whoop and holler and start flinging it at each other like they were all of three years old. I'm the one that got stuck putting them to bed and washing the sheets the next morning. I just threw out their clothes. Sam, honey? No matter what your brother tries to tell you, he should never, ever, under any circumstances drink vodka ever again. Got it?"

"It wasn't that bad," said Dean.

"Want me to have Sam hit you over the head with the shovel so you can remember what it felt like the next morning?"

"It wasn't that bad," he said again, grunting as he slammed the head of the shovel into the dirt. "Ignoring you now."

"Go ahead. I was talking to Sam anyway. Anyhoo, I thought your dad was going to knock their heads together until they were out cold when he saw them the next morning. I swear, your brother looked a lot worse off than your dad, and John at least had an excuse." Al's face twitched with sadness, but she gave her next sentiment the most casual tone she could. "You really missed out on some fun stuff around here, kid. We saw the two of them so often after you left that I bet your dad didn't spend more than thirty bucks on laundry in the entire time you were gone. Which, come to think of it, that's probably why they were here. Hotel maid service doesn't include laundry the way this place does, I suppose. There's probably some stuff upstairs yet in the closet for what was going to be the nursery, if you go check before you guys leave, by the way. It's your stuff. You might as well have it."

"Right," said Sam softly. He hated how every few minutes something one of them said sounded like Goodbye.

From just under the level ground, Sam saw Dean's eyes peeking over looking for his. He'd heard it, too.

Half an hour later, Dean climbed out of the grave with a hand from his brother. Sam handed him a bottle of water, which he shook off. He needed to be drinking something, but water wasn't exactly it. He breathed heavily for a moment, staring down into that deep fucking hole and wasn't entirely sure he didn't want to climb in there himself. Feeling like he had to get out of there, fast, he gave his brother a look and said, "I'll be back."

"I'll help," Sam said quietly.

"I've got it." Dean wanted to do this alone. There was no reason to traumatize them both with having to go into that freezer and haul that once loved frozen corpse out and have to . . . He gave a pointed look at Sam's cast, though, just to make that the reason. That was a reason Sam would accept a lot better. "I'm going to need you to drive as it is."

"You sure?"

Dean's voice was stone cold as he told them, "I'll be back."

Al looked up at the sky, unable to watch Dean stalk off. It was getting to be that time, and she didn't have much more time to give them. Without looking directly at him she told Sam, "I want you guys to clean out the safe. Caleb's stash is in there. It should set you up for a couple months. You don't have to use it right away. Save it for an emergency or something if you want. I'd just feel better if I knew you were at least sort of taken care of. Have Bobby haul our cars and you can sell them off. The paperwork should be in the safe. We don't need it, and I'd rather that it go to help you guys out than have my parents auction stuff off to someone who isn't going to give a damn. It's the least we can do to take care of you guys one more time."

Sam wasn't sure if this was the right way to put it, but he smiled at her anyway, trying to say his 'thank yous' in a way that would keep either of them from getting too close to tears. God, this trip sucked. "I'm really going to miss this place."

"We had fun," she agreed. "Emergency amateur kitchen table surgeries and the occasional bullet wound aside, we had a good time. Whatever anyone on the outside thinks, we made a life. No regrets." When Sam only nodded at her, she asked, "He's going to hate me for a long time, isn't he?"

"He'll get over it," Sam said quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was send one of their own off to the unknown thinking either of them was going to curse her along the way. "Ever since Dad died, things have been . . . He'll get over it."

"You two take care of each other," she said with a crooked smile. "That's an order."

"Always do."

They both drifted off into a strangely comfortable silence, staring up at the clear, cold night. It had been awhile since Sam had taken the time to look up at the stars and notice them for something other than whether or not they were aligned against him. He hadn't wanted to. He had had plenty of time to look up at the stars sitting in the Impala, waiting to find out if help would come for his father and brother. He'd decided then and there that he didn't want to see them anymore. Maybe now they weren't so bad, though.

"You should go help Dean," said Al, invading his thoughts.

Sam squinched his face up a little. "He said not to."

"Well, I'm telling you to go. This small talk thing is killing me here."

"Hardy har har."

"You keep pouting like that, one of these days your face is going to stay that way."

Sam reached out to shove her playfully only to have his hands go right through her. He stared at them, still not quite comprehending what they were doing out there. She looked so solid, so alive. It was only when she came into contact with things that she wasn't. It was so wrong. So very wrong.

"Go help Dean, Sam."

"You'll be okay?"

"Go."

"Stay" came the command from about twenty feet away. Dean came through the trees, carrying her across his chest with a heavy afghan covering her. When he caught up to them, he laid her body gently on the grass, making sure to cover her entirely with the blanket. He'd tried to close her eyes, but he'd been unable to manipulate her frozen flesh. He was lucky he had been able to find a way to carry her at all.

He stood there, hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. That walk up the stairs, through the house, and through the woods to the clearing had been a lot longer than he'd thought it would be. After a moment, he gave his brother a look, and together they quickly lowered their friend's body into the ground without any words of any kind. The idea of talking just wasn't coming to either of them at the moment. They both knew what the other was thinking anyway.

They had done this too many times lately. Far too many times.

When her body lay covered at the bottom of the hole, the two men climbed out and sat on either side of her for a while, all three of them looking up at the stars. It was probably a good ten minutes before Dean asked gruffly, "You ready?"

Al gave her friends an anemic grin, which Dean added to the list of ones she'd never smile at him as beautifully as she used to. Crookedly, she said, "I'd hug you, but I know how you Winchesters are about the whole hugging thing. Well, that and the whole lack of actual corporeality thing. So far? Being a ghost sucks."

"Maybe the next stop will be better," said Sam half-cheerfully. "You never know."

"Well, if nothing else, as long as Caleb's there, too, it's going to be an adventure. I could do with a little adventure these days. And a drink. All I can say is that the bar better be stocked because I intend to have a good time. My boy owes me a night out after all this."

Sam winked at her. "Good luck with that."

Dean plastered the widest grin on his face that he could manage under the circumstances. "Tell that ugly sonofabitch he owes me a pitcher when I get there."

"We'll be waiting," she said. "Just not too soon, okay? I had to share him with all of you for too long. I want him to myself for a while. We'll have plenty of time to catch up with you kids later." She took a heavy breath, looked up at the stars overhead, and snapped her fingers on her right hand. "All right, guys. Light 'em up!"

With matching grins of encouragement, Sam and Dean lit their matches with one synchronized movement and dropped the flames into the grave. They watched her, careful not to see which match hit the body first. Neither of them wanted to know whose flame started the job. They just wanted to be there to see the job finished. Alice's spirit glowed in the flames before it quickly dissipated off into the air like the ash off a camp fire. Dean could have sworn that the ashes looked happy as they flew off into the night, heading toward the stars and God knows what else.

God, he missed her already. Caleb, too. And Jim, he missed him even more. And Dad, well . . . Excepting Sam, everyone he'd ever really let himself love was gone now. He missed them all so much it physically hurt.

They stood there for a moment watching the sparks until finally Dean said, "Go back to the house, Sam."

"Why?"

"Just go. I'll be there in a little while."

"You sure?"

"Go, Sammy."

Sam didn't argue any more than that. Standing there and pushing the point over the still-burning corpse of a good, loyal friend didn't exactly seem like a good way to honor her and her sacrifice. That was what this whole trip had been about, right? Honoring the fallen? So why did it feel so lousy?

Dean stayed to make sure the flames died out without catching anything around the grave on fire. Al had been right, after all. The last thing any of them needed was unnecessary attention directed at this old farm. Best to keep it within the right circles. The two of them would get rid of as much of Caleb's stock pile as possible, but their trunk was only going to hold so much. He could call up certain interested parties, sure, but that would still leave too much to be discovered. It wouldn't be too long, he hoped, before her mother started looking around for her daughter, but he wasn't holding his breath on that one either. But even if her mother didn't come looking, someone would. It wasn't as if the only people the couple had known were hunters. People would come looking, right?

The blackness of the unspoken answer to that question sucked him in, as if it was all that hard to do these days. He wondered, feeling goosebumps raise on his arms and back, what would happen to them one day. Their numbers were dwindling. There was no getting around that. Their entire lives, their father had kept them away from other hunters. That a place like Ellen's existed hadn't even occurred to him. They had been their own underground. Just them, Caleb and later Al, Pastor Jim, Joshua, and Jefferson. Sometimes Bobby, when he wasn't threatening to beat Dad all through the Badlands if he didn't shut his yap. It was a small, intimate little group, a family that they had patchworked together for themselves, Pastor Jim leading the way. They didn't have the luxury of knowing anyone else. It was what worked for them, how they survived. And yet, those goosebumps shook him again, making him wonder exactly what would have happened to Al if it hadn't been for them stopping by. What if they hadn't made it out of the crash? Bobby, Joshua, and Jefferson were all that would have been left, none of them knowing to check in on her the way they had. People would have come looking for her eventually. They would have known . . . Right?

People would come to look for him eventually. If it all kept going this way, someone would come looking for him and Sam, right?

Needing to do something, he started to shovel the dirt back into place, burying his friend's ashes just to be safe. People would come looking eventually. People would want to know where she was. They had. Someone else would.

The morbidity of it all started to creep back up on him, making him want to scream. He could see her as she was the first night he and Caleb had met her. She'd been so . . . Well, Caleb thought she was stunning. That was the part that mattered. Caleb had had the luxury of seeing her like that. He had a full ten years on Dean. He could be in love instead of lust. He was the lucky one. Knowing how much fun the two of them had had together, how happy they'd been, it was definitely them that had been the lucky ones.

Yes, it's Al. Daddy wanted a boy, he got a stripper. She'd said it so bluntly that it just made sense.

It wasn't like they were going to hold that against her.

She'd pretended not to know how to shoot a shotgun just so that she could have Caleb there to hold her and teach her how to do it. Dean had heard the sex had been particularly good that day.

Her first hunt, she'd beat Sam to the shot. (They'd all beat Sam at every shot, but who was counting?) She'd proceeded to drink all but John under the table. Fourteen year old Sam had had to pick them up and drive them all home. She'd kissed them all Good Night. Ten minutes later, Sam had been pounding on the wall, which had only made Al scream louder. She was a screamer when the Winchesters were around. It drove Sam crazy. That was the fun part.

Dean always remembered to bring his headphones. Sam didn't. His mistake.

The first trip to Lincoln after Sam and Dad's blowout, she'd taken him for a drive while Dad and Caleb drank their little hearts out. When she'd parked the car by the lake, she had drawn a two foot piece of plumbing pipe from the trunk, handed it over, and told him to go at it. She'd climbed back into the car, turned up the music loud enough that she couldn't hear a sound outside, and gone to sleep until he'd come back from demolishing what remained of the old boat she'd been planning to get rid of anyway. She hadn't said a word and he'd been a little less angry.

She'd stitched him up a couple of times, always kindly berating his stupidity the entire time. Dad had always agreed. Caleb had tried to back her off, only to be backed off himself with one look. She was most definitely in charge of this outfit, and if any of them didn't like it, tough shit. She was far from perfect and had screwed up just as much as she'd done right, but the right stuff was a lot easier to want to remember at the moment. He'd be mad at her for everything else later.

God, he was going to miss her. He missed them all so much.

Losing Dad might have been a little easier-yeah, fucking right-if it hadn't been for losing them all at the same time. They were pieces of Dad as much as he had been pieces of them. This was their family. This was all they had. They didn't have a home, they didn't have any stability other than each other. The proverbial rug was gone, swept out, and burned to ashes like everything and everyone else in his life now.

He probably shouldn't be thinking about it like that. He had Sam. For all of their issues and insanity lately, he had Sam. He still had Sammy. He had Bobby. One day they might have Ellen and Jo back. All of that counted for something.

People would come looking.

*

When Dean finally trudged back into the house, he was surprised to find that Sam hadn't bothered to turn any lights on. They were out in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't like they had to be that careful. Maybe the lights hadn't been on for a few months as far as passersby were concerned, but if they actually noticed a light on, he doubted they would be concerned. If they hadn't been concerned at the empty of the house for two months, they shouldn't care any more about there being anyone there either. People should mind their own damned business anyway.

"Sam?"

The darkness didn't bother to answer back and neither did Sam.

Now just plain annoyed, Dean stomped through the more obvious places in the house, starting with the basement and Caleb's desk. He checked their bedroom, the guest room, everything. The last room was the living room. It was horrifying enough in the daylight. The shadows from the light coming in the windows could only make it look worse.

Caleb had put up one helluva fight. Atta boy.

Vaya con dios, buddyboy. You better be making your girl scream right about now. No need to thank me. You kids have fun now.

Up against the wall, directly under Caleb and Alice's wedding portrait, Sam sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and a bottle of Jack next to his good hand. Dean would have tripped over his brother's feet if the light hadn't hit him just right and in enough time to warn him. Missing seeing the bottle at first, Dean looked down angrily at his brother. "You suddenly gone deaf?"

When Sam didn't say anything back, Dean tapped his brother's knee with the toe of his boot. Sam swiped at it lazily but still didn't say anything.

"Sam!"

At that, the younger brother looked up with a tear-streaked face. He didn't say anything, but he held up his bottle to his brother, inviting him to join in the misery provided he didn't try to interrupt with talk. He wasn't in the mood to talk and wasn't in the mood for people who wanted to talk either. That was the condition; take it or leave it.

Accepting the invite, Dean slumped down next to his brother, leaving them shoulder to shoulder. After having realized that he'd gone almost an entire afternoon with his friend's widow without touching her, he needed to feel that his brother was there and solid. He should have known she'd been avoiding touching them for a reason. He should have known a lot of things. And right now, he was thinking that he should have known better than to send Sam back to the house alone with no company but his thoughts. The kid knew where Caleb hid the booze just as well as anyone else who had been sewn up in that household. He had been out there too long.

After a good long while Dean asked, "Why are we sitting here in the dark?"

"No talking," Sam slurred slightly. "Just drinking."

"Okay."

A while later-Dean wasn't sure how long since he refused to look at the clock knowing that there was blood splatter on it-Sam's head started bobbing up and down at fairly regular intervals. Dean didn't necessarily want to break the 'No Talking Just Drinking' rule since it had sort of worked out for him, but he couldn't let Sam fall asleep there either. For one thing, he didn't want to deal with the crick he'd have in the neck the next morning from sitting up with the kid all night long like that. He didn't know if it was the alcohol or the sleep not-talking at the moment either. It wasn't like Sam had busted a beer from the fridge. He was drinking straight from the bottle, and Sam and Jack had never gotten along that well to begin with.

Wallowing Weapon of Choice: Jack Daniel’s at a murder scene. Not pretty. Many brain cells were killed. No memories suffered permanent damage. Somehow, they never do, sly bastards.

"Hey, kiddo. Wake up."

"I'm awake."

"You're nodding. I don't think I should drive, so we're bunking down here for the night. I'll get you upstairs to your room."

"Don't wanna."

Dean ignored the whine in his own voice as he said tiredly, "Please? It's been a really lousy day. I don't want to fight. Just help me drag your happy ass upstairs."

He reached over to take the bottle from his brother's hand, but Sam was still surprisingly quick for being half dead drunk. He snatched the bottle and swept it over to the other side of his body like he was playing Keep Away. Sam snickered like a little kid, wanting to lord it over his big dope of a brother that he was much taller and would win that game, hands down. Always did. Because Dean is a little dope not a big dope and needed a frickin' step stool to keep up with him.

"Fine," grumped Dean, settling himself back into position along the wall at his brother's side. For now.

The silence that ate up the next few minutes was something they could both feel, not necessarily hear. It made the room darker. The shadows creeping up along the walls from the trees as the wind blew didn't help.

Then out of nowhere, Sam thoughtfully asked, "Have you noticed how everyone seems to want to tell us that nothing is our responsibility these days?"

"Yeah, and it's damned irritating," grumbled Dean. If only you knew, kiddo, if only you knew . . . "Why?"

"I don't know," the younger brother shrugged, obviously not meaning it to be as casual as it looked. "I guess I just wish people would stop telling me nothing is my fault."

Immediately Dean knew Sam was drunker than he'd thought and that he'd left his brother alone in the house for too long. He should have known better. Yeah, he'd needed some time to himself, time to figure out how to deal with the weight of the day, but it shouldn't have been so heavy on his mind that he didn't realize that his brother was in just as bad a place as him. He mentally kicked himself, annoyed. He'd been leaving Sam to do a lot of grieving on his own over the last two months; this trip was, among other things, supposed to be about them finally getting to grieve together so that they could put it behind them and find a way to move on. That week had torn them both up, not just him. But hearing that sickness in Sam's voice, the one that sounded so like it had the day their father had told them what he knew about The Demon, it wasn't right. He had to shut that one down quick. Forcefully, he said balls out, "Nothing is your fault."

"That's not what Dad thought."

"What?"

Sam's eyes dropped down, fascinated with how the bottle's label moved depending on how he shut one eye or the other. Deathly quiet, he muttered, "He was right. If I had just done what he'd told me to do, if I had just obeyed that one goddamn order, you wouldn't have ended up almost dying. Hell, you were dead. I saw it. I stood there in that doorway and watched you die. You said you think it's your fault that Dad's gone, like you think he died to save you-maybe he did, I don't know-but even if that part of it is true, he did it because I messed up. You both died because I screwed up. And yeah, if I had done things the way he wanted-fucking sonofabitch always had to be right-he'd still be gone, but you wouldn't be guilting yourself at every single mention of him. You'd have at least some peace of mind. I'd have . . . I'd be able to wake up at least one morning and not think that I'm the reason you're ticked off at the world and me and Dad and everyone else who comes along."

"Sam-"

"He told me what to do. He gave me the order. Either way you look at it, Dad is dead because of me."

The pity that Dean wanted to have for his brother came out much more belligerent than he meant it to. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

"I know you are, but what am I?"

"Sam."

Sam drunkenly swooped his casted hand across his chest-it was easier to see in the dark-and waved it around first in a cockeyed vertical then a wobbly horizontal, attempting to make a sign of the cross. "I absolve you of all responsibility, my son."

Rather than slug his brother, which he so very much wanted to do at the moment, Dean grabbed the bottle of Jack and whipped it across the room into the door.

"I'm not cleaning that up," said Sam with an Uh-oh, Now You've Done It voice even as he produced a second bottle from behind his back. He'd been two-fisting. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"I'm not talking about this with you when you're drunk," countered Dean. Following his brother's line of thought when he was drunk was even more of a challenge than when the guy was sober.

"You think I feel any better about it when I'm sober? This . . . heh . . . Guilt goes down a lot better when I'm not wanting to puke my guts up because everything reminds me that I screwed up. This way I at least have a few minutes of quiet before I barf."

"You did not screw up. If anything, I did because I asked you not to shoot him. I knew you'd listen to me over him. I told you not to do it."

"No, not that," Sam corrected him, sliding down off the wall to lay on his side on the floor. He could see the dust bunnies under the couch. Heh. They'd been busy little bunnies. Nymphos. "Before."

"Before what?"

"Before Pastor Jim."

Dean crawled around on hands and knees until he could see his brother's eyes again. They were more fascinated with something under the sofa than they were with the conversation, but the rest of Sam was very much tense and shaking. Not that Dean blamed him. He was pretty much shaking himself at this point. They were really going to do this, half drunk in the middle of the room that had taken two of their friends away from them for the rest of their lives. It was morbid and yet . . . "What do you mean?"

"When we first left Colorado and Dad asked me to ride with him," said Sam smally, like it hurt to admit it. "I mean really, everything changed the minute Dad told us about Pastor Jim. We didn't talk about anything else but The Demon from that moment on until he died. My last real chance at a conversation with my father, I couldn't think of anything to say to him. He asked me about Jess, which, hey, bad topic. He asked me about you, which, hey, bad topic. He asked about school, which, hey, bad topic. I couldn't talk to him about my life. I couldn't talk to him about anything. It was like being in a car with a stranger. That's why he had me get back in the car with you. He couldn't stand to be around me anymore."

Aw, shit, Sammy.

"Not that I blame him. I just wish it could have been different, especially after . . . "

"After?"

"The hotel," Sam whispered as if it were a dirty word. "I didn't mean to see him, I didn't. But I couldn't take you being worried over me like I'm six years old when he was sitting right there. He already thought I was helpless to begin with; I didn't need him thinking I couldn't handle it on my own."

It didn't happen often, but Dean was pretty sure his heart broke right then and there. It had taken a moment to follow his brother's inebriated line of thinking, but he remembered all too well now what it was that Sam meant. When his brother had come stumbling into the hotel room looking like a drunken fool, he'd known exactly what was wrong. Dad had tried to help, but Dean had backed him away with nothing more than a look.

Dean . . . Vision.

In the chair, Sam, now, before you fall down.

Hurts . . . God, it hurts.

I know. I'm right here. We'll ride it out, just like we have all the others. Breathe, Sam.

The baby . . .

Let's get you able to sit up straight before we worry about it, okay? We've got a little time.

Don't tell Dad. Please don't tell Dad.

Too late on that one, kiddo. Told you you shouldn't have skipped class the day they taught Lying To Your Father And Other Useful Avoidance Tactics.

Fuck . . . hurts.

He'd seen the look, too. Damn. Dean had thought he was the only one who had seen it. It had been quick but scary, at least for Dean. Their father had heard 'vision' and 'Don't tell Dad' and had pretty much shut himself off from them. They were going to be giving him an explanation down to the last damned detail, you'd better believe it, and they had better not leave a goddamned thing out. Dad had gone dangerous. He just thought he'd been sheltering Sam from his father's sight well enough to keep him from seeing that look, too. Damn.

"He looked at me like I'm something we hunt, Dean."

"Sam-"

"If I hadn't messed things up when I was riding with him, maybe I wouldn't care so much about that look. I could have laughed with him. I could have said all kinds of things. I was so worried about you when you were dying that I don't remember half the shit I said to him in the hospital. I remember yelling at him for wanting the stuff to summon The Demon, but really? Otherwise? My last memory of my father is him telling me to shoot him and then looking like I was a complete failure when I didn't. So what kind of son does that make me, huh? You want to feel guilty and tell me that this is all your fault? You aren't the one who didn't do as you were told and pull the trigger a second time. And what kind of fucked up universe do we live in that I have to feel guilty about not killing my father like he told me to? I don't . . . You aren't the one who disobeyed a direct order. My responsibility, not yours."

Dean sat up and crossed his legs under him Indian style, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands flop lazily in front of him. He tried to find the right words, but none of them really came to him. All he could hear himself saying was that his brother was a damned fool of a moron for thinking that their father loved him any less. Sam was everyone's favorite. Hell, even demons seemed to know it, which naturally scared the living daylights out of him, especially knowing what he knew, but he couldn't exactly let the cat out of the bag on that one. It was bad enough that he knew. Instead, he said the only thing that came to mind that was at least remotely consoling. "Look, the whole 'Shooting Dad' thing aside, he loved you. It was no wonder the two of you were strangers to each other. It's no one's fault, not anymore. Either one of you could have picked up the phone. Either one of you could have fallen on the sword, but you didn't. So do you know what I'm choosing to remember?"

"That you were his favorite and I'm always the screw up?"

"Shut up and I'll pretend you didn't say that. No, what I'm choosing to remember is that when I came back from that funeral home in Manning, you and Dad were laughing. I had left you alone together in a room for more than two hours, sure that I was going to come back to find you both dead after killing each other, only to open the door on the both of you laughing. You were smiling at him, and he looked happier than I'd seen him in a really long time. You guys looked like you used to, before you started fighting all the time. I almost believed for a little while that we were going to be a family again."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Is it working?"

"You're not denying it," Sam pouted. He swore the dust bunnies were copulating right in front of him. Had they no decency?

Dean tiredly pulled at his hair with the hand that wasn't busy trying to sneak his brother's bottle away from him. Yep, you've really screwed this one up, Winchester. How did he not notice the guilt he could now feel coming off his brother in waves? Oh, yeah, because he was too wrapped up in his own (not that that wasn't also entirely allowed). They both were, really. Granted, he had his reasons for not talking to his brother about it. Sam didn't know the half of it-and it was going to stay that way-but the idea that they had been this far apart for the last two months, no idea what was going on with the other . . . It was a wonder they hadn't gotten themselves killed. And that needed to end, now.

"We really are a pair sometimes, aren't we?"

"Huh?"

"It doesn't matter. Look, no more guilt. You or me."

Sam lifted his head off the floor to look at his brother with one eye screwed shut in scrutiny. "You're just saying that 'cause you think I'll believe you that you've stopped even though you won't stop and you're going to keep on feeling guilty even though I've told you like a million-gillion times that it isn't your fault. Dad loved you and died for you. You win. You're the favorite. See? The Stupid Demon was wrong. And you won't convince me otherwise. You're a liar, liar, pants on fire."

"Not the point."

"You had a point?"

"Sam, sit up and look at me." Dean waited while his brother actually did as asked and struggled to sit up. He helped situate the kid as best he could then set the bottle of Jack in between them. He made sure his brother was looking at least half way focused at him before he said, "Here's the deal. You and me, we're all we've got, especially now. And from the looks of it, I haven't been doing my job lately."

"I'm not a job, Dean," said Sam defensively. "And you're not the boss of me."

"Hey. Sober guy talking here. Shut up." An appropriately timed stuck out tongue reminded Dean of just who was in charge of this outfit. And it wasn't him, because he cracked a big old smile at that one. Stupid bitch. Heh. "Yeah, okay, fine. Have it your way."

Sam stared at Dean, looking almost sober for a moment. All silliness seemed to disappear, ball up, and well into his eyes. "You've left me alone for two months. Can you come home now please?"

"Damn it, Sam . . ."

Sam's good hand grabbed up the bottle and held it out to Dean, neck first. "I won't be mad at Dad anymore if you won't," he said in challenge. Dean took the bottle and drank in agreement. Sam took a swig of his own then held it back out. "I won't be mad at you anymore if you won't be mad at me." They each took a drink. "And really, no more being mad at Dad. He isn't here to defend himself anyway." They both took a drink.

Neither of them meant that one.

Dean took the bottle back one more time and stared at it for a while. When he looked up at Sam, he had tears in his own eyes. One more deal to make. "Tonight? Tonight we put Dad to rest with Caleb and Pastor Jim and Al. All of this shit goes away with one big, proper send-off. We drink for them and then it's done."

"You forgot Mom and Jess."

"Mom and Jess, too. Deal?"

Sam sealed the deal with a good, long chug on the bottle.

They talked about their loved ones, the good times only, and said their goodbyes in the only way they had really been taught to do it. They both laughed and cried, making the other swear never to let that one grace anyone else's ears. When Dean dumped his brother off in the bedroom upstairs, water bottle tucked into his hand, Sam was the one who got the last word in, although he was pretty much asleep as he said it.

"You know you were Dad's favorite, right?"

"Go to sleep, kiddo."

"Dean?"

"What?"

"You're my favorite, too."

*

Not as hung over as they could have been, the Brothers Winchester put a good four hundred miles between themselves and Lincoln that morning, no real destination in mind. They just went south. South sounded good. South was warm. They holed up in a motel just like all of the others that they always seemed to find. As long as it came with clean sheets, hot water, and no questions, that was all they really needed anyway.

They kept to themselves most of the day, neither really trusting himself to speak. They'd been just as quiet over dinner. Sam eventually went to sleep watching old reruns on TNT without even a simple Good Night directed his brother's way. Dean didn't really care at this point. He knew Sam would apologize in the morning anyway.

When Sam started snoring, Dean carefully got out of his bed and climbed into the shower. He turned it as hot as it would go, letting the water bite at his skin. The standard white washcloth was like sandpaper, but he didn't mind. He scrubbed hard, wishing like hell he could get the feeling off him. There was nothing specific, just a feeling of grime and gore and loss. It felt heavy on him, just like everything else. And it wouldn't fucking come off.

The water eventually ran cold, but Dean stayed under the spray until he started shivering. Because he really needed to come down with a cold right now. Because he really needed Sam to get all Mother Hen on him. He'd had enough of Big Brother Sammy lately. Kid brother needed to get back in his place here soon. He didn't like being the one being looked after. It just wasn't natural. Sam needed to get back to the natural order of things. Fast.

Once he was dressed, he found he was still very much awake. He wasn't sure why, but he had this twitchy need to make a call. He checked his watch and resigned himself to granting himself one last indulgence before he officially ended this miserable trip and started over.

Tomorrow, they'd both start over.

Making sure his brother was still asleep and still being cautious anyway, Dean stepped outside onto the balcony. He flipped his phone open and stared at it until the backlight went out, still not sure if he should do it or not. Then, before he could change his mind, he hit the speed dial and let it ring twice. Before a third ring could sound on his end, he snapped the phone shut and waited.

Half an hour's worth of pacing later, Dean was pretty much ready to give up when he felt the phone vibrate in his hand. He tried not to sound too relieved when he answered, "Hey."

"Hey, yourself. It's late. You boys okay?"

"Duty sucks," said Dean by way of answer.

"Maybe," said Ellen carefully. "But your daddy would have been proud of you for it anyway."

Asking more than one question with the one, Dean asked, "What makes you say that?"

"Your father was always proud of you boys. He just wasn't always proud of himself."

"You don't even know what we did."

Dean could hear Ellen dragging a bar stool around on her worn wooden floor and settling down. In the waiting silence, the clink of a glass hitting the bar and liquid being poured into his tantalized him. He wished to hell he'd thought to bust into the honor bar before making the call himself. After a little more jostling on her end, Ellen's voice came back and said, "You going to tell me about it?"

"You need to be liquored up to hear about it?"

"I'm always prepared. What happened?"

Ten minutes of damned near heartbreaking explanation later, Dean sighed heavily. "See? Duty sucks."

Ellen was quiet for a moment, excepting the sound of her downing the drink she had poured herself. Dean could hear her making Whiskey Face as she slammed the glass down on the bar. He heard her breathing heavily as if she were trying to pull herself together. There was a light click of her tongue before her voice came back, strong and to the point. "Why did you go on this trip, Dean?"

As if it were the most obvious answer in the world, especially since it was to him, Dean said, "Because it's what Dad would have done if it had been him to make it out of the hospital instead of me."

"But why do you think he would do it?"

"Because that's what you do. When you lose a soldier, you pay your respects."

"If that's the way he told you, I can understand that, but if that's what you think, you really didn't understand that part of him at all. It was anything but mechanics to him." She took another heavy sigh, steeled herself, then said, "I'm going to tell you something right now, but you need to understand that I cannot talk about it any more than I'm going to give you. Got it?"

Confused but curious, he quickly agreed. "Sure."

"You obviously don't remember this or you would have remembered me. It's okay. I didn't really expect you to. You couldn't have been more than ten when my Bill and your dad went off on their last hunt, but from everything your dad had told us about you kids, you were anything but ten. He told me once that you were already more of a man than he ever thought he could be. Considering the kind of standards your father held people to, I was pretty surprised. But he was so sure about you. He was so proud of you. And what I told you earlier was true. Your father was never as proud of himself as he was of you boys. It was never more obvious to me than the night after he left us. We'd . . . taken care of Bill . . . the way we all know how, you know, and John just disappeared during it. I don't know if he looked back or not. But when I was ready to take Jo back home, John was gone. Of course, I didn't notice him leave. I was . . . "

Quietly, Dean interrupted, not sure he wanted to know any more. It had been a hard enough two days as it was. "You don't have to-"

"Shut up. The important thing you need to know, the part about all of it that I am choosing to remember especially now that you boys have come into our lives . . . A week after all of this, I get a phone call. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what some little kid was doing calling my joint. We don't exactly get a lot of 'Dads' hanging out here. This place is a little rough for that. But here was this little voice on the end of my phone, calling to tell me that he was sorry. This little boy was telling me that he was sorry for the loss, and on behalf of his family, he was passing on their condolences. And then-I'll never forget it-he said he had to go because his brother's Spaghetti O's were boiling on the stove. Of all the things that happened that week, Dean, you did the one thing that I needed."

"I don't remember that. I don't . . . " Searching for any kind of memory of a phone call that could-Oh, damn! "Aw, man, I had no idea."

"Of?"

"I had never seen him like that," Dean said slowly, talking out loud as he remembered it all. "It was like he didn't even know where he was. We actually were in an apartment for the first time in probably a year. It had horrible furniture, but Sam and I were in separate beds for once. It was practically Heaven. Dad, he came home in the middle of the night, maybe three days later than he was supposed to be home, no explanations or phone calls to tell us why. He just sat down in this ratty old chair that came with the place and stared out into space. I remember it scared us both something awful because he didn't move. All he did was stare. After a couple hours, he started drinking. He didn't say a single word. Once I got Sam to school and Dad to bed, he was talking in his sleep and said that he'd 'lost him' and kept saying over and over 'I'm sorry'. It wasn't hard for me to figure out what he meant, so I got his journal to find out where he'd been. I just looked up the phone number and called. I didn't know who I was calling. I thought you were civilians. I didn't . . . Did I even use your name?"

Sounding like she was talking around a fairly sizeable lump in her throat, Ellen said, "No, but then, I knew who you were the second I heard your voice. I don't know how, but I did."

"I wish I could remember that part."

"It's not important. What matters is that you did for me what your dad couldn't, Dean. We loved him and we knew he loved us. Not like he loved you boys, but he did. Him not being able to face us when it was all over told me that. Now granted, I would spend the rest of my life being ticked as all hell at him for putting his little kid in that position, but I also knew your father. Knowing that he couldn't say what he needed to, it was the first thing that gave me a chance to forgive him. Believe me, forgiveness was a long time coming, but it came along eventually. I only wish he would have known that."

Unable to remember the actual conversation, Dean suddenly felt, after the explosion that had been thrust upon him by their little excursion to Philly with Jo, that he needed to have it again. At the very least, he needed to be sure that things were okay with them again. He had lost too much lately. He didn't want to lose this connection on top of everything else. Carefully, Dean asked, "Ellen?"

"Hmm?"

"Whatever my dad did, I am sorry. If I could bring Bill back for you and Jo, I would."

There was an almost unbearably long silence on the woman's end before her husky voice came back, "You are a good son, Dean. Don't you ever think any differently."

"Yes, ma'am," he said automatically.

A sniffle and a choking sigh later, Ellen added, "It's late. You had a long day."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Get some sleep. I'll see you whenever you boys can come around again."

Cautiously, Dean asked, "When should that be?"

"We're okay, Dean. You boys come around whenever. You are safe here."

There was another silence that waited for one of them to say something. After awhile, Dean cleared his throat. He could hear his voice aching as he made his request, but he was too tired and too damned spent to stop it. "Ellen? Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure?"

"Don't die on us. I don't know how much more of this we can take right now."

"Kid, I'm made of stronger stuff, I promise," she said, her voice sounding like she knew it was a lie but that she was doing her best to keep appearances for them both. "Get some sleep. I'll still be here tomorrow if you need me."

Yeah, that's what my dad said, too.

"Call me if you find Jo?"

"You'll be the first to know. Good night, honey."

"Yeah. 'Night."

Dean scrubbed hard at his face, wiping away the remnants of tears, dirt, and too much loss. He turned around, shoved his key in the door, and carefully closed the door behind him. He didn't bother to take down the sheets as he dropped onto the bed and turned on his side. He fell asleep watching his brother sleep peacefully at his side, the one piece of his father he now had left.

Duty sucks.

Loyalty sucks.

Love sucks.

You forgot to teach us that part, Dad.

Duty sucks.

(September 2007)