"The Road Goes Ever On" (4/30) (Sam/Dean)
The Road Goes Ever On (4/30)
(1900 words)
Warnings: Teenchesters (Sam is 16, Dean is 20)
Alternate reality/pre-series.
Links to previous installments under the cut.
One * Two * Three
Four
June 1983
8 P.M.
"Time to go to sleep." Mommy smoothes his bangs off his forehead, coaxing them away from his eyes. He fights to keep them open because even if he is all tucked in with the quilt drawn up beneath his chin and the pillows punched up all fat under his head, he's not ready to go to bed yet.
She taps his downturned lips, tickling him until he laughs. "There's my angel."
"Mom," he protests. Four years old is way too old for baby names. Baby names are for babies, like Sammy.
She smiles at him and leans down to kiss his cheek. "So you're too old to be my angel?"
Dean isn't sure, when she says it that way.
"Maybe for a little while longer then, hmm?" She pats his hand. "You're going to be such a good man when you grow up, Dean, but you know what? You'll always be my little boy."
That makes him feel warm inside. Better than the blankets.
Dean watches her as she turns on the night light, thinking she's the angel in her pretty white nightgown. He struggles up, knocking the quilt off. "Mommy? How soon am I gonna grow up?"
She looks at him like she's thinking hard. He starts to get worried that he's done something wrong, but then she smiles. "Lie down, Dean. I'll be right back. I promise."
He hopes Sammy doesn't start crying while she's gone, and he doesn't. He stays quiet.
When she returns, she's holding a little black bag in her hand. She sits beside him and takes his hand, letting what's in the bag slide out on his palm. He stares at it, confused, then up at her. He's not supposed to play with stuff like this.
"You'll grow up sooner than you can imagine," she says. "And when you do, this will be yours." She helps him make a fist and holds it for a minute before opening his fingers. "This belonged to my father, and his father, and his father, and his father…"
"And now it's mine?" Dean reluctantly lets Mommy take it back.
"It will be someday. When you're old enough to take care of it. You'll know you're all grown up when it fits you, and when you wear it it'll always remind you how much your family loves you, no matter where you are. Okay?" She slides it back into the pouch. "Until then, we have to keep it safe."
"Where? In a bank?"
"How about the glove compartment in Daddy's car?" She winks at him, sharing the joke between them. "It's safer than any bank in the whole wide world. Nothing bad can happen in there."
"Promise?"
She draws an X over her heart. "I swear."
June 2, 1999
Two A.M.
"What are you doing?"
Dean flinches, automatically closing his hand tight around the tiny pouch as Sam slumps down beside him on a patch of dry pine needles next to the shelter. He smells of old sweat, road grime, and like he hasn't had a shower in a few days. Even though the night's getting damn cold again now that the sun's gone down he's warm, as if he'd been under a pile of blankets in a bed instead of sprawled out on a picnic bench.
"Nothing." He clears his throat. "You should be asleep. Go back to bed."
"Uh-uh." Sam yawns and tries to crack his neck. "I twisted around weird. My ass is numb and my head hurts."
"Lay down on your other side."
"Don't want to. I'm awake now." Sam props his elbows on his knees and rests his chin in his hands. His eyes are still bleary. He yawns again.
"You're not fooling anyone."
"So what." It's not a question, and it's barely out before he nods at Dean's closed hand. "Is that from Dad?"
The stiff edges of the canvas irritate Dean's palm. "I found it in the bag. Guess he left it there by mistake."
"How come?" Sam tries to pry open Dean's fingers. "Can I see?"
Dean lets him snag the pouch and pull the drawstrings open. He frowns, puzzled. "It's empty."
"Told you it was a mistake."
"Thought you always said Dad didn't make mistakes."
"Everybody does."
"Huh." Sam looks at him, way too closely. Right before Dean's about to punch him in the head, he shrugs and turns away with another yawn. "It's three hundred and fifty miles to Fort Fisher," he says. "I did the math."
Dean rolls his eyes.
"Someone had to," Sam protests. He starts counting on his fingers. "Three hundred fifty miles. If we can do ten miles a day, then it'll take us thirty-five days to get there if nothing happens --"
"Don't say that, okay? Nothing's gonna --"
"-- if nothing goes wrong," Sam insists. "Thirty-five days."
Dean nods, relieved. "And he gave us all summer. See? I told you we'd be okay."
Sam snorts. Then -- and he hasn't done this in years, but like it's nothing at all now -- he lets go of his chin and drops his head to rest on Dean's shoulder. "Since when have we ever made it from one point to another without the shit hitting the fan?"
"Language, dude."
"Like you don't cuss." Sam wriggles, trying to get comfortable.
"Yeah, well, you're not me."
"And you're not Dad."
Dean goes still. The quiet is way too loud, broken only by the sounds of breathing and grasshoppers. He misses the Impala's growling so sharply it hurts.
Sam takes a deep breath and finishes his thought. "That's why I'm still here."
"Sam, don't." He tries to shake his brother off. Too warm, too close, too much "Take an aspirin and a vitamin and go back to bed."
Sam keeps his ass right where he's parked it.
Dean closes his hand tightly around what he palmed and hid there before Sam took the bag.
I can't keep up with all of this, he thinks. Sam's the brain, not me. I wasn't supposed to get this until I was old enough to be on my own. I know she told you that before… before. So why now? Does this mean you're gone for good, or what? That even if we get all the way to Fort Fisher, you won't be there because --
The thought makes his mouth taste sour and metallic with fear. He's relieved as hell when Sam's attention wanders and he drags Dean along for the ride. "Hey. You think there's anything to hunt around here?"
"Doubt it."
"Why not?"
"'Cause I don't see any signs, that's why not."
"Bet there are," Sam persists, chin jutting out. Dean's surprised by how sharp the point is. Sam lost his baby fat somewhere when he wasn't looking. Maybe with this last growth spurt.
He shakes it off and tries to keep up, bickering right back, because that's easier. "Doesn't matter what you 'bet'. What matters is what's in front of you. What you can see with your own two eyes. You know that."
"Please." Sam shakes his head to get the hair out of his eyes. His chin bumps Dean's shoulder and damn, he was right. Pointy. Ow.
"This place, this road, they have to be this empty for a reason," Sam persists. "I don't think anyone's been here for years. Maybe there's angry spirits that made them all leave. Maybe the coins mean something, like they ward off wraiths or they're tribute for a --"
"You're just guessing."
"Yeah, but --"
"I need whiskey to deal with this and damn if we aren't fresh out," Dean grumbles, getting up. He smacks at his ass and thighs to clear off the pine needles clinging to him. "If there's anything out here to hunt, then we'll hunt it." Please don't let there be. I can't do all this and hunt too. "If. Okay?"
Sam pulls his knees up and rests his chin on them this time. He looks sideways at Dean, his forehead furrowing. "Where'd you get the ring?"
Dean shoves his hand in his pocket, hiding the gleam of silver around his finger. He put it on when he stood, not thinking about anything except not dropping it. "Doesn't matter."
"But --"
"Leave it, Sam!"
Sam shakes his head and closes off like a seal, drawn off to that weird place inside his head where Dean never has known how to follow him. Sorry right away for yelling at him, Dean nudges Sam with the toe of his boot. "'We' means you and me, Sam. Like we agreed."
Sam doesn't smile. "Yeah. Dean? What kind of weapons did Dad pack for us?"
The joke Dean has ready about buddy movies dies unspoken on his tongue.
"I figured. He didn't give us anything, did he?" Sam looks up through the fringe of his hair. "Just enough for us to know we don't have a choice about figuring out how to take care of ourselves."
"A knife," Dean offers, almost desperate. "We've got a knife. And there's salt packets in the MRE's."
Sam goes blank as empty glass. "I wish you could hear yourself, Dean, I really do."
"Hey," Dean protests. "It's not like I'm --"
"Yes. You are. Anything so you don't have to face the way things really are, Dean." Sam glares at him. "Dad doesn't want us to make it on our own. He lied to you. What he really wants is for us to get stuck somewhere so he has to come rescue us, and he wants us to get so scared we'll never even think about doing something different with our lives and just go with whatever he wants until we end up dead."
"That's not fair and you know it."
"Since when is anything about our lives fair?"
Dean clenches his fists, mad enough to really hurt Sam and trying his damndest not to. Why do you have to make this harder than it already is? Huh? I'm trying my best here. Damn it!
Sam gets up, not bothering to brush off his own coating of pine needles. He digs around in the pile they've flattened and comes up with a handful of acorns. "Knew there was something poking me," he mumbles. "Anyway. We've got to make some plans. In case."
He heads for the tree line and just inside, just far enough into the trees that he can still be seen but is still guaranteed to give Dean a heart attack with nerves, which he totally knows, the little shit. He throws a couple of acorns deep into the woods, hitting a tree each time. Tock. Tock.
Dean needs something to hit, but all he's got are words and he sucks at words. He tries for the easiest distraction first. The out. "Why do you care so much about weapons and ghosts all of a sudden? You hate hunting. You never wanted to find a hunt before."
Sam shrugs, looking uncomfortable. "I can change."
"I'm not asking you to."
"I know." Almost too quietly for someone who isn't trained to hear, Sam mutters, "That's why I want to. For you." He whips another acorn, really putting his back into it this time. It's a hell of a throw, a lucky shot straight through stand after stand of pine trees, and it takes a couple seconds longer than before to hear it hit a target.
Except this time it doesn't go tock. It goes splash.
Continues here.
(1900 words)
Warnings: Teenchesters (Sam is 16, Dean is 20)
Alternate reality/pre-series.
Links to previous installments under the cut.
One * Two * Three
Four
June 1983
8 P.M.
"Time to go to sleep." Mommy smoothes his bangs off his forehead, coaxing them away from his eyes. He fights to keep them open because even if he is all tucked in with the quilt drawn up beneath his chin and the pillows punched up all fat under his head, he's not ready to go to bed yet.
She taps his downturned lips, tickling him until he laughs. "There's my angel."
"Mom," he protests. Four years old is way too old for baby names. Baby names are for babies, like Sammy.
She smiles at him and leans down to kiss his cheek. "So you're too old to be my angel?"
Dean isn't sure, when she says it that way.
"Maybe for a little while longer then, hmm?" She pats his hand. "You're going to be such a good man when you grow up, Dean, but you know what? You'll always be my little boy."
That makes him feel warm inside. Better than the blankets.
Dean watches her as she turns on the night light, thinking she's the angel in her pretty white nightgown. He struggles up, knocking the quilt off. "Mommy? How soon am I gonna grow up?"
She looks at him like she's thinking hard. He starts to get worried that he's done something wrong, but then she smiles. "Lie down, Dean. I'll be right back. I promise."
He hopes Sammy doesn't start crying while she's gone, and he doesn't. He stays quiet.
When she returns, she's holding a little black bag in her hand. She sits beside him and takes his hand, letting what's in the bag slide out on his palm. He stares at it, confused, then up at her. He's not supposed to play with stuff like this.
"You'll grow up sooner than you can imagine," she says. "And when you do, this will be yours." She helps him make a fist and holds it for a minute before opening his fingers. "This belonged to my father, and his father, and his father, and his father…"
"And now it's mine?" Dean reluctantly lets Mommy take it back.
"It will be someday. When you're old enough to take care of it. You'll know you're all grown up when it fits you, and when you wear it it'll always remind you how much your family loves you, no matter where you are. Okay?" She slides it back into the pouch. "Until then, we have to keep it safe."
"Where? In a bank?"
"How about the glove compartment in Daddy's car?" She winks at him, sharing the joke between them. "It's safer than any bank in the whole wide world. Nothing bad can happen in there."
"Promise?"
She draws an X over her heart. "I swear."
June 2, 1999
Two A.M.
"What are you doing?"
Dean flinches, automatically closing his hand tight around the tiny pouch as Sam slumps down beside him on a patch of dry pine needles next to the shelter. He smells of old sweat, road grime, and like he hasn't had a shower in a few days. Even though the night's getting damn cold again now that the sun's gone down he's warm, as if he'd been under a pile of blankets in a bed instead of sprawled out on a picnic bench.
"Nothing." He clears his throat. "You should be asleep. Go back to bed."
"Uh-uh." Sam yawns and tries to crack his neck. "I twisted around weird. My ass is numb and my head hurts."
"Lay down on your other side."
"Don't want to. I'm awake now." Sam props his elbows on his knees and rests his chin in his hands. His eyes are still bleary. He yawns again.
"You're not fooling anyone."
"So what." It's not a question, and it's barely out before he nods at Dean's closed hand. "Is that from Dad?"
The stiff edges of the canvas irritate Dean's palm. "I found it in the bag. Guess he left it there by mistake."
"How come?" Sam tries to pry open Dean's fingers. "Can I see?"
Dean lets him snag the pouch and pull the drawstrings open. He frowns, puzzled. "It's empty."
"Told you it was a mistake."
"Thought you always said Dad didn't make mistakes."
"Everybody does."
"Huh." Sam looks at him, way too closely. Right before Dean's about to punch him in the head, he shrugs and turns away with another yawn. "It's three hundred and fifty miles to Fort Fisher," he says. "I did the math."
Dean rolls his eyes.
"Someone had to," Sam protests. He starts counting on his fingers. "Three hundred fifty miles. If we can do ten miles a day, then it'll take us thirty-five days to get there if nothing happens --"
"Don't say that, okay? Nothing's gonna --"
"-- if nothing goes wrong," Sam insists. "Thirty-five days."
Dean nods, relieved. "And he gave us all summer. See? I told you we'd be okay."
Sam snorts. Then -- and he hasn't done this in years, but like it's nothing at all now -- he lets go of his chin and drops his head to rest on Dean's shoulder. "Since when have we ever made it from one point to another without the shit hitting the fan?"
"Language, dude."
"Like you don't cuss." Sam wriggles, trying to get comfortable.
"Yeah, well, you're not me."
"And you're not Dad."
Dean goes still. The quiet is way too loud, broken only by the sounds of breathing and grasshoppers. He misses the Impala's growling so sharply it hurts.
Sam takes a deep breath and finishes his thought. "That's why I'm still here."
"Sam, don't." He tries to shake his brother off. Too warm, too close, too much "Take an aspirin and a vitamin and go back to bed."
Sam keeps his ass right where he's parked it.
Dean closes his hand tightly around what he palmed and hid there before Sam took the bag.
I can't keep up with all of this, he thinks. Sam's the brain, not me. I wasn't supposed to get this until I was old enough to be on my own. I know she told you that before… before. So why now? Does this mean you're gone for good, or what? That even if we get all the way to Fort Fisher, you won't be there because --
The thought makes his mouth taste sour and metallic with fear. He's relieved as hell when Sam's attention wanders and he drags Dean along for the ride. "Hey. You think there's anything to hunt around here?"
"Doubt it."
"Why not?"
"'Cause I don't see any signs, that's why not."
"Bet there are," Sam persists, chin jutting out. Dean's surprised by how sharp the point is. Sam lost his baby fat somewhere when he wasn't looking. Maybe with this last growth spurt.
He shakes it off and tries to keep up, bickering right back, because that's easier. "Doesn't matter what you 'bet'. What matters is what's in front of you. What you can see with your own two eyes. You know that."
"Please." Sam shakes his head to get the hair out of his eyes. His chin bumps Dean's shoulder and damn, he was right. Pointy. Ow.
"This place, this road, they have to be this empty for a reason," Sam persists. "I don't think anyone's been here for years. Maybe there's angry spirits that made them all leave. Maybe the coins mean something, like they ward off wraiths or they're tribute for a --"
"You're just guessing."
"Yeah, but --"
"I need whiskey to deal with this and damn if we aren't fresh out," Dean grumbles, getting up. He smacks at his ass and thighs to clear off the pine needles clinging to him. "If there's anything out here to hunt, then we'll hunt it." Please don't let there be. I can't do all this and hunt too. "If. Okay?"
Sam pulls his knees up and rests his chin on them this time. He looks sideways at Dean, his forehead furrowing. "Where'd you get the ring?"
Dean shoves his hand in his pocket, hiding the gleam of silver around his finger. He put it on when he stood, not thinking about anything except not dropping it. "Doesn't matter."
"But --"
"Leave it, Sam!"
Sam shakes his head and closes off like a seal, drawn off to that weird place inside his head where Dean never has known how to follow him. Sorry right away for yelling at him, Dean nudges Sam with the toe of his boot. "'We' means you and me, Sam. Like we agreed."
Sam doesn't smile. "Yeah. Dean? What kind of weapons did Dad pack for us?"
The joke Dean has ready about buddy movies dies unspoken on his tongue.
"I figured. He didn't give us anything, did he?" Sam looks up through the fringe of his hair. "Just enough for us to know we don't have a choice about figuring out how to take care of ourselves."
"A knife," Dean offers, almost desperate. "We've got a knife. And there's salt packets in the MRE's."
Sam goes blank as empty glass. "I wish you could hear yourself, Dean, I really do."
"Hey," Dean protests. "It's not like I'm --"
"Yes. You are. Anything so you don't have to face the way things really are, Dean." Sam glares at him. "Dad doesn't want us to make it on our own. He lied to you. What he really wants is for us to get stuck somewhere so he has to come rescue us, and he wants us to get so scared we'll never even think about doing something different with our lives and just go with whatever he wants until we end up dead."
"That's not fair and you know it."
"Since when is anything about our lives fair?"
Dean clenches his fists, mad enough to really hurt Sam and trying his damndest not to. Why do you have to make this harder than it already is? Huh? I'm trying my best here. Damn it!
Sam gets up, not bothering to brush off his own coating of pine needles. He digs around in the pile they've flattened and comes up with a handful of acorns. "Knew there was something poking me," he mumbles. "Anyway. We've got to make some plans. In case."
He heads for the tree line and just inside, just far enough into the trees that he can still be seen but is still guaranteed to give Dean a heart attack with nerves, which he totally knows, the little shit. He throws a couple of acorns deep into the woods, hitting a tree each time. Tock. Tock.
Dean needs something to hit, but all he's got are words and he sucks at words. He tries for the easiest distraction first. The out. "Why do you care so much about weapons and ghosts all of a sudden? You hate hunting. You never wanted to find a hunt before."
Sam shrugs, looking uncomfortable. "I can change."
"I'm not asking you to."
"I know." Almost too quietly for someone who isn't trained to hear, Sam mutters, "That's why I want to. For you." He whips another acorn, really putting his back into it this time. It's a hell of a throw, a lucky shot straight through stand after stand of pine trees, and it takes a couple seconds longer than before to hear it hit a target.
Except this time it doesn't go tock. It goes splash.
Continues here.