"The Road Goes Ever On" (11/30) (Sam/Dean)
The Road Goes Ever On (11/30)
(1800 words)
Warnings: Teenchesters (Sam is 16, Dean is 20)
Alternate reality/pre-series.
Links to previous installments under the cut.
One * Two * Three * Four * Five * Six *
Seven * Eight * Nine * Ten *
Eleven
Dean shifts his weight on the picnic table. The wood creaks and pops beneath him. Bolted to the concrete or not, he's not too confident in how well it'll hold up or for how much longer.
"Hurry it up, Sam, would you?"
Sam picks through the few bits of first-aid kit they do have -- or at least those they're aware of -- as if it's a whole surgical tray instead of a handful of band-aids. "Hold on. I want to do this right."
"It's a few scratches," Dean protests. "How wrong can you go?"
Sam's hand hovers over the suture kit.
"Whoa!" Dean flinches back. "Okay, that right there? That'd be wrong. And seriously, what's wrong with me doing this myself? Gimme a couple of alcohol swabs and I'll be fine."
"Sure. And when you develop gangrene --"
"For god's sake, Sam, that's not gonna --"
"-- and your leg falls off, don't come crying to me." To Dean's relief, Sam puts the suture kit down. "I guess they aren't that deep."
"You should know. You're the one who cut me in the first place." Dean fidgets again. He's going to end up with splinters in his ass, he knows it.
"Quit squirming." Sam tears open one of the swabs and takes Dean by his ankle. Dean guesses it's to hold him still. "Don't even start," Sam says without looking up. "If I let you go, you'll kick me in the face."
"I will not!"
Sam presses his lips tightly together and drags the alcohol swab down the center of the shallow knife cuts. Dean's leg jerks in response, a reflex, and almost pulls free.
"See?" Sam mutters. "Told you."
Dean grits his teeth and grimaces at Sam. "Just get it done."
Sam discards one stained swab and goes for another. Dean wants to warn him to ration those, too -- who knows how many they'll end up needing -- but then again, although he seriously doubts anything would turn green and fall of, neither he or Sam can afford to take the chance.
Dean hums tunelessly through his teeth and kicks his free foot, drumming his heel on the table's attached bench.
"Almost there." Sam reaches without looking and snags the tube of antibiotic ointment. "Wish we had some gauze. The Band-Aids aren't any good for long cuts close together."
"If wishes were horsepower, Sam."
Sam snickers. Dean chuckles despite the stinging burn from the alcohol and prods Sam's knee with the tip of his boot.
"Hey," Dean says abruptly, not really meaning to.
"Hmm?" Sam sits back, studying his work.
Dean started this, so he mans up to it. "Um. Thanks."
The corner of Sam's mouth lifts. "Yeah. Let me know next time you need someone to maim you. I think my calendar's open."
Dean laughs, startled. Sam glances briefly up to flash a grin at him, then zips back down to his work.
They sit in silence while Sam smoothes on the ointment. Kid's got a good touch, Dean has to admit. Doesn't dick around about what's got to be done, and then he makes decent work out of it. Not bad.
"So what do we do now?" Sam asks, capping the ointment.
Dean shrugs. "Get out of here, I guess. See how far we can go in a day."
"What?" Sam draws back, frowning at him.
"We've wasted too much time already." Dean flexes his ankle, testing how much his leg will protest if he needs to run or jump. Nothing I can't handle, he decides. "We should get back on the road and start clocking some miles."
Sam looks away, then down. His expression sets tightly, familiar to Dean. Anger. "Huh."
"Huh?" Dean echoes, frowning at Sam. "What, that's not enough for you?"
"No. It's not." Sam wipes his ointment-greasy fingers on his leg. "She's still down there."
"Yeah, I know, and she can stay down there for all I give a damn," Dean says, his nerves prickling. Sam better not be winding up to the argument Dean suspects he is. Sam's done great so far, sure, he's manned up like a champ, but about this decision, he's got no right to argue. Not after all the fights Sam and Dad have about hunting.
Dean's had his moments of being angry Dad did this to them. Sure. But he can't turn away from Dad. He can't.
He puts his foot down on the bench. "End of discussion, Sam. We're done here. Someone else can take care of her."
"You don't mean that," Sam says.
"Wanna bet?"
"Nope. You never walk away from a hunt, Dean. Not that I can ever remember."
Dean taps his boot on the bench, annoyed. "This is different, and if you've gotta ask me how it's different --"
"What if I did? What would you say?" Sam addresses Dean directly, challenging him. He hardly blinks. "It's different because you have to take care of me? Watch out for me?"
"That's not fair --"
"What's fair have to do with it?" Sam tosses the ointment in the first-aid box and shuts the lid hard, crumpling the thin cardboard. "Fair wouldn't be dumping us here in the first place."
"Jesus, Sam, don't start with this --"
"Why not? What Dad did was wrong."
Dean recoils. "Don't you say that."
"Okay. Sure. Kicking both your sons out of a car in the middle of the night without enough food and water to last a week, and telling them to meet him in three months? Don't know what I was thinking. Who'd have a problem with that?"
"Damnit, Sam! It's not like we can't do what he asked. We should be able to. We're trained for it."
"Are we? Not on a road like this, we're not. Know how I know? We're still here." Sam gestures angrily at the empty road, at the deserted shelter, and at the dense forest. "Noticed anything weird about this?"
"Oh, jeez, let me think. You mean aside from the crazy ghost or what-the-fuck-ever she is?"
"Who you're planning to leave here to kill whoever she wants." Sam kneels up, invading too much of Dean's space. "No one's driven by since we've been here. That cop car was the last other human we saw, and that was miles away. If it was real. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe she made us think we saw it so she could herd us here. Maybe we're trapped and we won't get out until she's taken care of. Ever think of that?"
"Sam --"
Sam slams the flat of his hand on the table. "I'm not done!"
"With talking?" Dean jeers, hackles rising. "You never are. Flapping your lips every hour, every day." He raises the pitch of his voice, going high and girlish. "Dad, are we there yet? Dad, how much further? Dad, change the radio station, I hate this song. Dad, I'm hungry, Dad, Dad, Dad --"
"You know what?" Sam rises higher. "I am so sick of hearing about Dad. If I never saw Dad again, or heard from him, or if you never said his name again it would be way too soon."
"Don't you talk that way about him, Sam, or I swear I'll --"
"Swear you'll what?" Sam's red in the face, he's so worked up. "Take a swing at me? Send me to my room? Make me hike across -- oh, wait."
"
Sam's balanced so precariously on the bench, and he's so loud now, shrill and insistent, and the scared buzz in Dean's head won't stop. Dean sees himself doing it, and then lets it go, kicking his brother off the bench and on his ass.
Dean climbs off the table and stands over Sam, fists clenched. "I don't want to hear any more about this. Is that clear? Get your share of the stuff. We're leaving."
Dean turns away. He smacks the surface of the table, shoving off the debris they left behind. He's got his hand on the straps of one duffel, ready to throw it over his shoulder, when Sam, who hasn't said a word since he hit the dirt and hasn't made a move to get up, says in a voice that's low and dangerous as a snake's hiss, "Yes, sir."
Dean turns back to stare numbly at Sam as Sam gets up, rubbing his shoulder where Dean's kick landed. "What did you call me?"
Sam brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks abruptly older, sadder and meaner. "Nothing." He shoulders past Dean and reaches for a duffel. "If this is what you think's right thing to do, then fine. We're wasting daylight. Better hit the road. Start walking. Make up for lost time."
Dean doesn't know it's coming before he sees his hand, as if it belongs to someone else, snap closed around Sam's wrist. His voice is raw as an open wound. "Wait." He can't think. He doesn't know how to say this. "What do you want me to do, Sam?
Sam doesn't try to push him off. Why would he? He's got what he wanted. "I want you to be Dean. The Dean I know, he'd hunt this thing."
"But Dad said --"
"That's what I mean. I don't want to hear what Dad would say. And he's not here. You are. So I want to hear what you would say. If Dad wasn't waiting for us to do the impossible. If it was just you who came across this all on your own, what would you do? If it was just me, five years or ten years from now, how pissed off would you be if I just walked away?"
Dean's silent, gritting his teeth.
Sam pushes again. He always does. Never lets anyone catch their breath. "I know what you'd do. What I want to stay here, with you, and do. Hunt her. Because she needs to be dealt with. Finished."
Dean knows it's true. But to hunt her is to turn his back on Dad. He doesn't know if he can.
And if she gets her hands on Sam. Hurts him. Maybe kills him.
God. Dean can't breathe. He doesn't want to do this. He wants to get out of here.
But Sam's right. The only choice they have is no kind of choice at all.
They can't walk across the state to meet Dad. Their responsibility to him ended when they found a hunt.
"I'm sorry," Dean says, the words escaping him out loud when he didn't mean for them to.
Sam crowds Dean from the side. "I know. For what it's worth… me too."
Dean's not sure how much it is worth, the exchange rate between brother and father and family and duty. And he can't stand here and talk to Sam about it any longer. Not without hitting him again.
Dean turns and walks away, heading for the edge of the shelter nearest to the woods. Sam lets him go, and doesn't come after him until the day starts losing its light.
Continues here.
(1800 words)
Warnings: Teenchesters (Sam is 16, Dean is 20)
Alternate reality/pre-series.
Links to previous installments under the cut.
One * Two * Three * Four * Five * Six *
Seven * Eight * Nine * Ten *
Eleven
Dean shifts his weight on the picnic table. The wood creaks and pops beneath him. Bolted to the concrete or not, he's not too confident in how well it'll hold up or for how much longer.
"Hurry it up, Sam, would you?"
Sam picks through the few bits of first-aid kit they do have -- or at least those they're aware of -- as if it's a whole surgical tray instead of a handful of band-aids. "Hold on. I want to do this right."
"It's a few scratches," Dean protests. "How wrong can you go?"
Sam's hand hovers over the suture kit.
"Whoa!" Dean flinches back. "Okay, that right there? That'd be wrong. And seriously, what's wrong with me doing this myself? Gimme a couple of alcohol swabs and I'll be fine."
"Sure. And when you develop gangrene --"
"For god's sake, Sam, that's not gonna --"
"-- and your leg falls off, don't come crying to me." To Dean's relief, Sam puts the suture kit down. "I guess they aren't that deep."
"You should know. You're the one who cut me in the first place." Dean fidgets again. He's going to end up with splinters in his ass, he knows it.
"Quit squirming." Sam tears open one of the swabs and takes Dean by his ankle. Dean guesses it's to hold him still. "Don't even start," Sam says without looking up. "If I let you go, you'll kick me in the face."
"I will not!"
Sam presses his lips tightly together and drags the alcohol swab down the center of the shallow knife cuts. Dean's leg jerks in response, a reflex, and almost pulls free.
"See?" Sam mutters. "Told you."
Dean grits his teeth and grimaces at Sam. "Just get it done."
Sam discards one stained swab and goes for another. Dean wants to warn him to ration those, too -- who knows how many they'll end up needing -- but then again, although he seriously doubts anything would turn green and fall of, neither he or Sam can afford to take the chance.
Dean hums tunelessly through his teeth and kicks his free foot, drumming his heel on the table's attached bench.
"Almost there." Sam reaches without looking and snags the tube of antibiotic ointment. "Wish we had some gauze. The Band-Aids aren't any good for long cuts close together."
"If wishes were horsepower, Sam."
Sam snickers. Dean chuckles despite the stinging burn from the alcohol and prods Sam's knee with the tip of his boot.
"Hey," Dean says abruptly, not really meaning to.
"Hmm?" Sam sits back, studying his work.
Dean started this, so he mans up to it. "Um. Thanks."
The corner of Sam's mouth lifts. "Yeah. Let me know next time you need someone to maim you. I think my calendar's open."
Dean laughs, startled. Sam glances briefly up to flash a grin at him, then zips back down to his work.
They sit in silence while Sam smoothes on the ointment. Kid's got a good touch, Dean has to admit. Doesn't dick around about what's got to be done, and then he makes decent work out of it. Not bad.
"So what do we do now?" Sam asks, capping the ointment.
Dean shrugs. "Get out of here, I guess. See how far we can go in a day."
"What?" Sam draws back, frowning at him.
"We've wasted too much time already." Dean flexes his ankle, testing how much his leg will protest if he needs to run or jump. Nothing I can't handle, he decides. "We should get back on the road and start clocking some miles."
Sam looks away, then down. His expression sets tightly, familiar to Dean. Anger. "Huh."
"Huh?" Dean echoes, frowning at Sam. "What, that's not enough for you?"
"No. It's not." Sam wipes his ointment-greasy fingers on his leg. "She's still down there."
"Yeah, I know, and she can stay down there for all I give a damn," Dean says, his nerves prickling. Sam better not be winding up to the argument Dean suspects he is. Sam's done great so far, sure, he's manned up like a champ, but about this decision, he's got no right to argue. Not after all the fights Sam and Dad have about hunting.
Dean's had his moments of being angry Dad did this to them. Sure. But he can't turn away from Dad. He can't.
He puts his foot down on the bench. "End of discussion, Sam. We're done here. Someone else can take care of her."
"You don't mean that," Sam says.
"Wanna bet?"
"Nope. You never walk away from a hunt, Dean. Not that I can ever remember."
Dean taps his boot on the bench, annoyed. "This is different, and if you've gotta ask me how it's different --"
"What if I did? What would you say?" Sam addresses Dean directly, challenging him. He hardly blinks. "It's different because you have to take care of me? Watch out for me?"
"That's not fair --"
"What's fair have to do with it?" Sam tosses the ointment in the first-aid box and shuts the lid hard, crumpling the thin cardboard. "Fair wouldn't be dumping us here in the first place."
"Jesus, Sam, don't start with this --"
"Why not? What Dad did was wrong."
Dean recoils. "Don't you say that."
"Okay. Sure. Kicking both your sons out of a car in the middle of the night without enough food and water to last a week, and telling them to meet him in three months? Don't know what I was thinking. Who'd have a problem with that?"
"Damnit, Sam! It's not like we can't do what he asked. We should be able to. We're trained for it."
"Are we? Not on a road like this, we're not. Know how I know? We're still here." Sam gestures angrily at the empty road, at the deserted shelter, and at the dense forest. "Noticed anything weird about this?"
"Oh, jeez, let me think. You mean aside from the crazy ghost or what-the-fuck-ever she is?"
"Who you're planning to leave here to kill whoever she wants." Sam kneels up, invading too much of Dean's space. "No one's driven by since we've been here. That cop car was the last other human we saw, and that was miles away. If it was real. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe she made us think we saw it so she could herd us here. Maybe we're trapped and we won't get out until she's taken care of. Ever think of that?"
"Sam --"
Sam slams the flat of his hand on the table. "I'm not done!"
"With talking?" Dean jeers, hackles rising. "You never are. Flapping your lips every hour, every day." He raises the pitch of his voice, going high and girlish. "Dad, are we there yet? Dad, how much further? Dad, change the radio station, I hate this song. Dad, I'm hungry, Dad, Dad, Dad --"
"You know what?" Sam rises higher. "I am so sick of hearing about Dad. If I never saw Dad again, or heard from him, or if you never said his name again it would be way too soon."
"Don't you talk that way about him, Sam, or I swear I'll --"
"Swear you'll what?" Sam's red in the face, he's so worked up. "Take a swing at me? Send me to my room? Make me hike across -- oh, wait."
"
Sam's balanced so precariously on the bench, and he's so loud now, shrill and insistent, and the scared buzz in Dean's head won't stop. Dean sees himself doing it, and then lets it go, kicking his brother off the bench and on his ass.
Dean climbs off the table and stands over Sam, fists clenched. "I don't want to hear any more about this. Is that clear? Get your share of the stuff. We're leaving."
Dean turns away. He smacks the surface of the table, shoving off the debris they left behind. He's got his hand on the straps of one duffel, ready to throw it over his shoulder, when Sam, who hasn't said a word since he hit the dirt and hasn't made a move to get up, says in a voice that's low and dangerous as a snake's hiss, "Yes, sir."
Dean turns back to stare numbly at Sam as Sam gets up, rubbing his shoulder where Dean's kick landed. "What did you call me?"
Sam brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks abruptly older, sadder and meaner. "Nothing." He shoulders past Dean and reaches for a duffel. "If this is what you think's right thing to do, then fine. We're wasting daylight. Better hit the road. Start walking. Make up for lost time."
Dean doesn't know it's coming before he sees his hand, as if it belongs to someone else, snap closed around Sam's wrist. His voice is raw as an open wound. "Wait." He can't think. He doesn't know how to say this. "What do you want me to do, Sam?
Sam doesn't try to push him off. Why would he? He's got what he wanted. "I want you to be Dean. The Dean I know, he'd hunt this thing."
"But Dad said --"
"That's what I mean. I don't want to hear what Dad would say. And he's not here. You are. So I want to hear what you would say. If Dad wasn't waiting for us to do the impossible. If it was just you who came across this all on your own, what would you do? If it was just me, five years or ten years from now, how pissed off would you be if I just walked away?"
Dean's silent, gritting his teeth.
Sam pushes again. He always does. Never lets anyone catch their breath. "I know what you'd do. What I want to stay here, with you, and do. Hunt her. Because she needs to be dealt with. Finished."
Dean knows it's true. But to hunt her is to turn his back on Dad. He doesn't know if he can.
And if she gets her hands on Sam. Hurts him. Maybe kills him.
God. Dean can't breathe. He doesn't want to do this. He wants to get out of here.
But Sam's right. The only choice they have is no kind of choice at all.
They can't walk across the state to meet Dad. Their responsibility to him ended when they found a hunt.
"I'm sorry," Dean says, the words escaping him out loud when he didn't mean for them to.
Sam crowds Dean from the side. "I know. For what it's worth… me too."
Dean's not sure how much it is worth, the exchange rate between brother and father and family and duty. And he can't stand here and talk to Sam about it any longer. Not without hitting him again.
Dean turns and walks away, heading for the edge of the shelter nearest to the woods. Sam lets him go, and doesn't come after him until the day starts losing its light.
Continues here.