(no subject)
Part b
Dean had the table laid out with takeout containers of the biggest breakfast Sam had ever seen: thick slices of French toast, hash browns, bacon. It was more food than he usually ate in days. And sitting on his side of the table was a big fruit cup, with actual fresh fruit in it. He stared at Dean, wondering how he knew that he liked fruit. He'd never been all that thrilled about meat and grease. Maybe...maybe it was something Dean remembered about him? It was a really uncomfortable thought.
"Looked like something you'd like." Dean shrugged and pushed the fruit closer. "When I first moved in with Uncle Bobby, Bobby Singer-you probably don't remember him-I couldn't get enough home-cooked meals and fruit, man. It was like Treat Day every day. Worst part of constantly bein' on the road was all that fast food shit." He looked up and caught the odd look Sam couldn't keep off his face. "Yeah, you don't remember. We fucking lived on takeout and gas station food for fuck...six years, six years of never enough food, and shitty food when we got it…"
He shook his head, and Sam tentatively asked, "Is..is that why? Because he didn't take good care of us?"
Dean refused to look at Sam. "Eat your breakfast. Shut up."
Sam forced the food down like Dean told him. Besides, it made perfect sense. Sam had no idea when he'd eat again, so best to take advantage of it.
They ate in silence, no sound except the slam of car doors and people coming and going from the rooms. Sam had almost cleared his container of food, bacon and all, before muttering, "Thanks for bringing my clothes with. And, y'know...the picture. It's the only one I have." He glanced over at Dean, and caught the way his face lit up.
"Well, yeah. Had to bring your picture...sorry I forgot that other one." He reached out to Sam, almost touching him, before grabbing his mug instead. "Gotta take care of you, Sam, " he replied softly.
Sam swallowed hard to keep from choking on his food. He concentrated on the last of his French toast like it was a test, struggling to keep a lid on what he was feeling-until it exploded out of him. "Why? Why are you doing this to me? What do you want with me?"
"Look, I know you're freaked out; you think you know what kind of person I am, but you don't. What I'm trying to do is keep you safe, and I can't do that in Cali. I'm so fucking sorry, but we're not going to ruin your life, just...put it on hold for a bit."
"Right." Sam couldn't bury the flash of skepticism, couldn't keep his mouth shut. "Right, you're not going to hurt me, no, but you're going to fuck up my life," he snarled at Dean, held his hand up with index finger and thumb almost touching, "but just a little bit."
He switched fingers so he was flipping Dean off, and Dean just rolled his eyes. "You'll see," he said. "Everything is going to make sense later. I know it felt like you were safe, but you were in...a web. A bad place. I know you're good…"
Sam frowned. Dean's voice had dropped so he barely made that out. 'I know you're good.' What did that mean? Yeah, he was a good guy...well, okay, he was decent, he tried not to be an asshole. "Where are you taking me?"
"Kansas. Take us 'bout four days or so...try and think of it as a road trip with your big brother."
He grinned, and Sam shuddered, his stomach rolled. All he knew about big brothers was frightening and world-ending. He prayed with everything he had that Dean meant it when he said he didn't want to hurt him.
"We don't have the leisure to stop anywhere interesting on the way, but I'll try to make it as good as I can for you, okay? Lots of food stops-already told Missouri that it'll probably take the whole four days." He made an expression that on another person not nuts would be cute. "She said 'thank god'. Like I drive crazy or something. Mothers, psychics...they're all the same."
~o0o~
"So, lawyer, hunh? How'd you come to that?" Dean peeled back the bun on his cheeseburger, poking at tomato slices suspiciously. The diner they'd stopped in promised the 'best darn burgers in the world', so Dean insisted they stop. So far, he'd told Sam, he wasn't all that impressed. Too much lettuce, not enough meat, he'd said.
"Because-" well, Sam didn't think it'd be smart to say he wanted to help put people like his brother away, so he said, "I wanted to help people." Dean beamed at him like he'd done something really clever. Sam nibbled an edge of the world's greatest burger. The lettuce was crisp. That was a nice touch. He resisted patting the burger down with a napkin again-Dean had almost stroked out when Sam did that the first time.
"Yeah, that's good, Sammy. That's what we do, you know, the family business. We help people, we...well, we help people. I'm glad to see it's still in your blood."
"Yeah," Sam said, "well...I'm missing classes, so that's not gonna happen, is it?" He took a bite of his burger-conversation over.
Dean looked ashamed. "Well, I'm not sure Sam. It...no, it might not. We'll have to see."
Sam was smart enough not to yell this time. He figured he'd skirted the edge enough times. Sooner or later, this guy was gonna get tired of being lectured and yelled at, and figure out that dragging Sam around wasn't worth it, and kill him. Or sell him. Or cut him into bits and eat him-why the fuck did he want Sam? Family reunion with what was left? What did Dean want...and just what the fuck did he think he was protecting him from? That was what really scared him….
~o0o~
They spent another night in another crappy motel, courtesy of Clive Campbell-or his credit card, at least. By that time, Sam had concluded that either Dean suffered some sort of multiple personality disorder, or he worked credit card fraud. Sam was too fucking tired to be appalled when he'd finally figured that out. He just asked Dean to for god's sake get a pair of queens because the doubles were just too fucking small for him. Dean had looked at him and laughed for ages.
"Y'think we're stayin' at the Marriott or somethin'? Fuck, if our beds are clear of crawly little company we're good," he snorted.
Of course, that night Sam didn't sleep a wink.
They drove, and drove some more, and Sam thought his legs were going to permanently cramp. "Why don't you have a car made in this century?" he groused. "This car has...is that a cassette player? Are those cassettes?"
"Yeah. Uncle Bobby installed it himself. Looks good, right? He did a great job. Magic hands with cars," Dean stroked the dash like you'd stroke a dog. "This old girl's taken me all around the country, y'know."
Sam looked at the worn beige dash, the old-fashioned dials and switches, and just didn't get it. Why didn't Dean have a CD player? Fucking better A/C? Cassettes, Jesus….
He flicked through the box Dean had plopped in his lap. "These are all old guy music tapes," he complained. "Black Sabbath. Motorhead. Metallica. It's the greatest hits of mullet rock. You're like an old guy shoved into a young guy's body, listening to old guy music and driving an old guy car."
"Hey, hey, hey, no dissin' the Chevelle, man." Dean patted the odd, three-spoke steering wheel, huffed a breath on her emblem, a fleur-de-lis, before buffing it in exaggerated motions. "Don't listen to him, Baby. You got my heart; he's just m'pain-in-the-ass little brother."
Sam actually laughed at that; surprisingly, he felt a bit lighter than he had in days, flying down the highway in an old...what did Dean call it? "A Chevelle?"
"Yep. A '68 SS 396. A classic, and she's my baby."
Sam stared out the window, frowning. Something seemed off, like most faint memories he had of the time...before. "This car. It's like, I should know it, it's almost familiar. But it's off." He pressed his palm against the vinyl seat, ran his other hand over the padding on the door. "I think. This is different."
Dean raised his eyebrows, shot Sam a look before concentrating really hard on the road ahead. "Well, I picked her because it reminded me of Dad's-our dad's-car. 1967 Chevy Impala, black as sin, beautiful car. Long gone. Got impounded, and Uncle Bobby couldn't find her. Truth to tell, he was a lot more concerned with saving me from some...juvenile psych ward than looking for a car. Not that he wasn't worried about you, too. It was just, well, he knew where you were and that you were safe, but me...anyway, when I was a little kid he promised me a car to replace her, and when I was old enough to work on one, I chose this."
Sam looked at Dean. He looked so fucking happy, drumming his fingers against the wheel, smiling. The sun lit him up like...like magic. Turned him into Apollo….
"I'm sorry we lost the car, Sammy, but Baby here is loyal. She's going to take to you, because you're family.
~o0o~
Sometimes around their third night out, Dean said, kind of halfheartedly, "I guess we're going to have to talk about all this. Soon."
At that point, Sam was at a place where he wasn't waking up in terror anymore. He barely woke in dread; In fact, after all the hours spent together on the road, he'd begun looking at Dean a little differently. And Dean was smiling at him, his expression much happier, with less agonized shame lurking in his eyes. As time went by, Sam was beginning to believe him when Dean assured him that he wasn't going to kill him, and less inclined to automatically dismiss him when Dean said he hadn't killed their father. Maybe...maybe something happened in which Dean honestly didn't believe he was in the wrong for killing their father. And from the little tidbits Dean dropped about the man, Sam was beginning to build a picture of a somewhat abusive, more times then not, absentee father.
Except...sorrow radiated from Dean when he talked about their dad. It was obvious that Dean, regardless of what Sam thought of him, had adored their father. The man had never been more than a symbol of lost family to Sam. He had no memories of him, even though he'd been six when the man died.
Making Dean ten.
Making the kid who'd supposedly fed and practically raised Sam, and had killed the man who was their father, only ten when it happened. Holy shit. Dean couldn't have been in jail for the last sixteen years...could he? They didn't put little kids in jail, no matter what they did, right? He remembered asking Mom and Dad when he was little where Dean was, and they just said he was locked up. Sam never really asked more than that…why hadn't he questioned it? Why not when he'd grown up? How could he have forgotten this man?
"Okay, Dean."
"Hmm," Dean replied, bent over a small leather journal, and as far as Sam could see, pretending he hadn't heard his name. "What is it, Sam?" he murmured.
"So talk already. You said you wanted to, so...what happened? Why did it happen?"
Dean sighed, like he'd been waiting, with no enthusiasm, for this question. He tossed the book down on the bed he'd claimed, and leaned back against its headboard. "Not yet, Sam, not everything. But I can tell you something about our lives. You won't believe me...and you definitely won't like it. Or me. But it's what I can give you now."
~o0o~
Dean rubbed his face, hard. Sam watched his hands move, thought how unlike his they were, shorter fingers, wider palms, red knuckles laces with thin white lines. The back of his hands were dotted with fine scars as well, some only recently healed. Was he a fighter, Sam wondered, or...a gangster? A construction worker...a really mean librarian? He yelled for the goofy part of his mind to shut up, and watched Dean's expression shift, going harder, when he dropped his hands.
"Ghosts are real."
Oh fuck, Sam thought. It's worse than he'd imagined; Dean truly was insane.
"It's okay, I know you don't believe it. But they are, and almost any monster you can imagine is real."
Sam's mouth ran away with him. "Vampires?"
"Nah, they're extinct," Dean said, casually as if Sam had asked him if there was any milk left.
"But werewolves are real, and genies are real, and a whole lot of stuff you don't even know the name of. But our Dad did." Dean held up the book he had been reading. "Later on, we'll take a look together. But yep, Dad knew his shit. Well, our Dad knew what he knew, but Bobby, and Pastor Jim, and Travis, and a few others, knew more-like, the shades of gray between the black and white our Dad wanted the world to be. Easier for him that way…."
Sam took a few deep breaths, trying to head off the anxiety attack that being crammed into a postage size room with a really fit whack-job was percolating.
"Whoa, whoa, Sam," Dean snapped, catching Sam's arms. 'Hey, buddy, don't check out, okay? I promise, it's okay."
Sam actually felt himself comforted by that. Dean had a way of being so...there...and he'd dropped his voice down into a mellow, silky tone that felt like it was just for Sam.
"Can I…?" Dean asked, and gently eased Sam closer, giving Sam lots of time to pull away, until his head was tucked under Dean's chin and Sam almost cried, it felt so right. Whack-job or not, it felt good to be surrounded by Dean...which meant that somewhere along the way, Sam had lost all of his own marbles.
"I gotta tell you this stuff, and I know you're gonna think I'm crazy but...don't matter. You think what you want. Maybe as time goes by you'll see I'm tellin' the truth, and I hope to god it's just through research or something, and not from practical experience. Anyway...ghost stories and horror movies get it right sometime. Anytime you've been afraid of something lurking in the dark, worried that there's something out there that wants to hurt you, you've been right. Yes. There are monsters and a lot of them, most of them, do want to kill you. What our Dad did was stop them. We protect people. Our Dad raised me to be a hunter and he was gonna raise you to be that too. Only, he...things changed. Now, I got this book, belonged to our Dad, and I'm gonna take you to see people who'll explain it better than me, but what it boils down to is our family's always done its best to protect the helpless."
Sam shook his head, realized what he was doing only when Dean stopped the movement between his hands. Dean's hands smelled, Sam thought, like...hunh. Like safe; a metallic scent, a machine smell, something else, like some kind of herb….
"Sammy? Hey, Sammy?"
"You keep calling me that," Sam choked out. "I hate it. It makes me sound like a stupid little kid, like I'm helpless."
"Oh, fuck no," Dean said, "last thing you are is helpless. But. I'll stop if that's what you want. I'm sorry it upsets you."
Strength drained out of Sam, Dean's hands on him the only thing holding his head up. "My dad...he called me Sammy. Right before you shot him. Begged me to help him."
"Oh, Sam-oh no, that 's not what-shit. I'll explain, soon. Just...that wasn't Dad. Not really. I swear I'll explain, but we need...we need to talk to my friend, Missouri Moseley. You'll understand the truth when we go to her."
~o0o~
Sam felt trapped, unable to drag himself out of the mental pit he'd fallen into. He felt like he was swimming in molasses, in so deep he could barely hold his head up. He wanted to be afraid, but he was too damn tired to be. All day, every day, everywhere he looked, he saw Dean with his hands outstretched, face permanently locked into a sympathetic grimace. What can I give you Sammy what can I do for you Sammy how can I help you Sammy but Sam was too tired to tell him. 'You can't, please leave me the fuck alone, go away, leave me be.'
He was exhausted and resentful, scared shitless; even worse, more and more he was beginning to wonder if there was a kernel of truth in this stuff that Dean swore by. But somehow, magically, whenever he was ready to lose his last vestige of sanity, Dean went and did that thing. That thing where he gathered Sam up and held him close. Tucked him under his chin. And every single fucking time it brought Sam peace, despite having to curl over and tuck himself in to gain that spot. Sam closed his eyes and imagined being there now, Dean's heat enveloping him, Dean's rock-hard arms somehow feeling like the softest place he could be.
Sam blinked lazily and shifted on his bed. Was this Stockholm syndrome…? Was he imprinting on Dean in some way? Sam figured it was really a shame, because Dean was fucking insane. A great, big, soft, warm, crazy motherfucker.
He eased onto his back and sighed. It was night, and Dean was out-going to get a drink he said, but the wink he'd tossed Sam's way was a tip-off to the kind of evening Dean had planned for himself. That waitress in the diner earlier had practically climbed Dean like a pole. Sam pouted. And then he bit his cheek. What the fuck, the guy was his brother-besides, what was he miffed about? No matter how Dean treated him, or what he said, they essentially were strangers to each other. What did it matter to Sam whether he dipped his dick or not? Besides, the fear that Dean would kill someone without Sam's eyes on him had faded considerably.
Whatever had happened back when they were kids, Sam was sure Dean wasn't a-a natural born killer. He'd killed their Dad, but he wasn't a killer per se. Something had happened that had led to their dad's death at Dean's hands, but...no way was Dean a cold-blooded murderer.
It was freaking confusing, and Sam was getting a headache thinking about it. He rolled onto his side again, and thought about running, in an idle sort of way. Dean hadn't cuffed him since that first time, and Sam didn't know why he hadn't run after that. The soles of his feet itched as he thought about it. Stockholm syndrome, that had to be it.
He squashed a flash of relief when he heard scratching at the door, and sat up when it slowly swung open.
"Dea-Oh my god, Jess! Jess!" Sam scrambled off the bed, tripping over his feet in his haste to get to the door, sliding through the salt Dean had spread there amid dire warnings not to move it-screwball.
"Jess, oh my fuckin' god, how did you find me?"
They fell into each others arms, Sam gripping Jess like she was a buoy in storm-wracked seas. He rained kisses on her, desperate kisses she returned with equal fervor. "Oh god, oh god...how?" He pulled back and asked again. "How did you find me? Where were you?"
"Oh baby, I was determined. And now I'm here to save you. That guy you left with, he's a killer, Sam. What are you doing with him?"
"Well, shit, he forced me, Jess, I didn't-oh god I was so scared for you-he didn't touch you did he? He swore he didn't-"
"No, no, he didn't touch me. Though I gotta tell you, Sammy-kins, if he'd offered, I'd have jumped on that dick like it was candy. No wonder you can't keep your eyes off him! The way you drool...gotta say, puppy, I had no idea you actually swung that way! I mean, remember spring break and that party at Benny's? Totes thought that one time we partied with what's-his-name was due to me and loads of tequila! Hell, I love seeing pretty boys go at it like that."
She smiled down at Sam, her expression a creepy mixture of the kind of fondness a person felt for a pet-and lust. Sam choked back sudden nausea as she cupped his cheek, let her hand slide down to wrap delicately around his neck. She leaned closer, whispering in his ear, "I really should have known-you had it in you all the time, didn't you, you dirty little boy, you."
Sam felt the air roaring in his chest, clogging his throat; the space between his ears an echoing hollow that a hurricane swirled in to fill.
What. The. Hell. Was. Happening?
"Je...Jess?"
"Sure, I'm Jess, I'm your pretty blonde, your green-eyed Jess." She pointed at her eyes, smirking. "Just the shade you like, right? Though I gotta say, I wonder why...oh well, no, I guess I don't, seeing as how Dean has the same kind of pretty green eyes. Your brother. Tsk."
"Jess, wha-no!" He was stuck in a nightmare, had to be, he must have only thought he was awake. Because his sweet, loving Jess just threw him across the room. Sam crashed into the bed and went flying across the slick, cheap bed cover to slam against the wall. "Oh fuck, what...what's happening? Jess-" he croaked, still feeling the grip of her hands on his neck.
"Keep it down, you idiot," she hissed. "Now I'm going to have to drag your giant ass back to Stanford and kill that pain-in-the ass brother of yours. After all the trouble we went through to separate you two tiny snots. Just kill him, I said, but noooo, they had plans, he might be useful, they said."
She leaned over Sam, and her expression was...Jess eating pizza. Mildly happy, little smile curving her pink mouth; she licked her lips and said, "I think we should have sex first. I really enjoy your big dick. So fucking hot, the way you turn from a shy nebbish to a fuckin' freak in the sack, damn, you sure can-"
"Jess, please!" Sam shouted, and Jess reared back, snarling.
"Okay, that's it," she snapped and snapped her fingers. A vicious convulsion whipped across Sam's mouth-his lips felt like they'd suddenly become iron. He grunted and screamed and roared behind his teeth, but he couldn't move his lips or open his mouth or lift his tongue. Jess leaned back into his face, mouth twisted with a horribly un-Jess-like grin. She blinked, and Sam shivered at her pure black eyes. She looked like that demon granny in Legion...she looked like she'd like to eat his face and was just holding herself back by a thread.
You're not Jess, he thought and she whispered, "Bingo," like she'd read his mind.
"I haven't been Jess in a long fucking time, buddy. Jess has shuffled off this mortal coil. Well, okay, maybe she was pushed, just a teeny bit. If it means anything, dear Sam, she really did love you. At first. Until she realized you were the reason I moved in, and then...she hated you like you wouldn't believe. I got myself off to the depth of her hatred a few times, Sunshine. Man, how she wished you dead-"
Three things happened at once: there was gunshot, there was blood, everywhere and Jess dropped flat onto his face.
"Sam!" Dean fell through the doorway, gun drawn, and his arm shaking.
Sam lay there under the weight of his dead girlfriend. Or...someone who looked like his girlfriend. Something...he screamed when Jess suddenly lifted her head, grinning at him with a mouth full of bloody teeth.
"Surprise!"
"Sam, don't move," Dean shouted.
Don't move? Don't move? Was he insane? His...Jess was bleeding on him. Jess was, she was-
She moved faster than any human he'd ever seen. She clocked Dean, knocked him into a wall; Sam heard a sharp crack. Dean's gun went flying, and he dropped to one knee, digging frantically in his jacket before staggering upright and tossing...water? Throwing water into her face, and suddenly steam covered her whole head and she was screaming.
For a horrible, whacked-out few seconds he thought Jess' face was on fire. She jumped backward, crashing into the window. Her elbow smashed through the glass; shards and blood sprayed outwards. Chill air whipped through the room, the drapes catching on the shards still trapped in the frame.
She crouched on the sill just for a minute, and wiggled her fingers in the kind of wave they both used to think was funny, little bougie wave, and blew him a kiss before vanishing into the dark.
The minute he lost sight of her, the weird paralysis disappeared-his mouth worked again. "Dean? Dean?" Sam repeated his name until Dean staggered into view.
"Sam, you're okay, yeah?" He quickly ran his hands over Sam's torso, his arms, grimacing at the blood but looking relieved that none of it was Sam's. "Yeah, you're okay…"
Dean's hands were on Sam's face when Sam grabbed at them, pinning them in place. "Dean, what was that? I don't understand. What happened? Jess, she…?"
"Sammy...that wasn't Jess, okay? Whatever she said to you, it was a lie. That's what they do; they lie."
"They? What they? What do you mean?" Sam was aware that he had Dean's hands trapped against his face, but he couldn't let go, the thought of Dean not touching him was worse than...than Jess dying on his chest and coming back to life. "Help me!"
"Oh, Sammy. God, I'm so sorry, I know she was...you loved her. I'm so sorry."
"Dean, is she...is she dead?"
Dean nodded, and the grip of his hands softened under Sam's. His thumb swept back and forth across Sam's temple and his eyes dropped. "I'm sorry, Sam, more than likely, she is. They...she probably didn't suffer; most of the times the possessed are...unaware," he said, but Sam was pretty sure his brother just lied to him.
"But what happened? Her eyes were, oh god..."
"Demons. She had black eyes, right? Yeah, possessed." Dean sighed. "A monster took your girlfriend. I can't tell you how or when. It could have happened...at any time, Sam. No one can tell. Sometimes people notice a loved one is acting strange-withdrawn, or. Or mean. Cruel. Or just differently."
"Differently..." Sam slowly let Dean draw his hands away, instantly missing the heat. "I...oh god, Jess was...she was always sarcastic, but funny, y'know? Though lately, yeah...she's been kind of mean. Just little things at first; picking at me, her friends, jabbing at our sore spots, private things, you know? Getting more and more vicious, I guess. And…" he stopped, mouth dropping, eyes growing wide. "And Brady-Tyson, my best friend. Out of the blue, he's turned into a real asshole. He came back from break and he was-so different. Mean. Like, like Jess.…"
Sam's voice trailed off into silence as he stared at Dean, waiting for him to tell Sam he was fine, Brady was fine, Jess was fine.
"Shit." Dean sighed, and blew Sam's fragile hope out of the water. "Shit...we are so screwed." Dean shook his head, both hands coming up to scrub at his face.
"Why? Why are we screwed?"
"Not now, Sam. Right now, we've got to make tracks. Missouri's waiting, and we don't want to get stuck payin' for the fuckin' window."
~o0o~
Sam never imagined there'd come a day he'd skip out on a motel, but he was living a lot of stuff outside the realm of his imagination these days..
Under Dean's terse order, Sam packed faster than he ever had in his life. He shoved his pitiful handful of clothes and toiletries (and Jess' shirt, and the picture Dean had known to bring) into a skinny backpack Dean had given him, then packed Dean's clothes into a big, beat-up, old duffle bag. Meanwhile, Dean had packed all the pointy and dangerous things into a bag that came from out of the air, apparently. Sam had no memory of Dean dragging a bag full of weapons into the room with him. He was glad that he hadn't noticed. Weapons that weren't a bat, or a steak knife under the pillow, made him really nervous.
Right before they'd slipped out of the room, Sam noticed that Dean dropped a couple of bills on the table. Dean caught him looking and flushed. He cut his eyes away and mumbled, "Hey, someone's gonna get stuck cleaning this shit up."
Sam was still thinking about that when they were on the road. He was beginning to think maybe something was wrong in the story he'd always been told. Was it possible that a kid could be a...a cold-blooded killer, and then...change? Heal? Maybe Dean's time had been spent in a psych facility; maybe it had helped him change.
Or maybe, everyone along the way had been wrong about Dean. Sam just didn't know how, or who, to ask. Things had been strained with his folks since he'd...well, it wasn't running away from home when you left for college. Unless you were Pat and Bill Mazur…then you were being the ungrateful kid who refused to take over the family business and had the temerity to gain a full fucking ride to one of the best universities in the nation.
Sam took a deep breath and looked over at Dean, whose whole attention was on the road, a little contented smile bowing his lips...damn it. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd gone from bone-chilling fear to-to this odd fascination. He just couldn't...he couldn't make that connection, it wouldn't click, that this guy was his brother-his sibling and besides that, he wasn't even attracted to guys in that way, damn it.
Except somehow, to some degree, he was. He kept staring at Dean, trying to figure out why in such a short amount of time, Sam felt so strongly about him. He spent a lot of time watching the sunlight shift over Dean as they moved. He got lost in the light traveling across Dean's cheekbones, the way shadow curved over the swell of his lip. Wasn't there a word for this bizarre attraction? Some kind of effect, a syndrome? Just what the fuck was this sudden gaying-up of his aesthetic sense?
He dropped his eyes to his lap, watching his fingers try to strangle each other. He'd be fine. He just needed some air. And a little space, like, two or three states between himself and Dean….
"How ya doin' over there, Sammy-I mean Sam? You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm. I'm alright, I guess."
"Good, good. I see there's a chance you'll take to this life of crime."
"Dean!"
Dean just chuckled, like everything was a-okay, then gave Sam a quick wink and a brief smile that Sam was physically incapable of not returning, at least a little bit. The fucker.
~o0o~
Sam experienced the sensation of falling asleep and starting a new day waking up in a moving car. Another first. Waking up when the sun was just starting to rise on the road was oddly...beautiful. Watching the light go from gray to gold, seeing the countryside wake up-Sam had never experienced it. His eyes were fixed on the brightening horizon and Dean, Dean seemed to get it. The radio was low; Sam could hear the tires humming against the asphalt and snatches of sound coming in through the slightly cracked window. The air rushing through was chilly, but only enough to wake him. At the moment, he was content to be silent, until he turned to Dean, who was watching him with that fond look...and a touch of something else in his eyes.
Sam dropped his eyes. The green of Dean's eyes were so close to Jess' color. His heart squeezed painfully, wishing he knew exactly where she was, what was happening to her, whether Dean was right and she was...was actually gone; he gasped when the touch of Dean's hand broke into his increasingly darker thoughts.
"Whadaya say, Sammy-darn it, Sam, sorry-you ready to stop?"
Dean's words sent a little twinge through him. Yes, definitely. Sam nodded. "Yeah, that'd be good."
They stopped at the first gas station they saw, Sam unbuckling when Dean did, watching Dean as he gassed up the Chevelle, then following him across the parking lot. They reached the doors and Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulder just as he reached out for the door handle, stopping him. "Hey, uh, it's-it's okay if you call me Sammy, sometimes. I guess...you saved me, I think. So, yeah, it's okay."
Dean gave Sam a look that made the sunrise he'd watched that morning seem pitifully bland. Sam blinked, and dropped his hand like he'd been burned. Dean didn't seem to notice though, he swaggered through the glass doors like he owned the place, whistling some tune Sam didn't recognize. Was catchy, though.
Dean took him around the gas station and pointed out what was safe and was was not. "Burritos, Sammy, avoid them like the plague, and anything that's got fish in it unless you're in a fish state. Anything sealed in plastic is okay. Anything like a Twinkie or a Hostess cupcake is always okay because that shit'll survive a thermonuclear war."
Dean bought them sandwiches and sodas, and drove them around to the back of the lot. They ate, leaning against the royal-blue car. Sam listened to Dean describe how he'd painted her, from prep to why he chose blue over black. "Royal blue, Sam, the color of kings."
Sam just chewed and nodded, and didn't add that purple was actually the color of kings, not when Dean seemed so pleased with himself. Sam ran a hand over the Chevelle's roof, trying to imagine sanding and prepping his own car to paint, rebuilding the engine on his own. He couldn't picture building a car basically from the ground up. Dean must feel pretty damn good about himself, Sam thought. He was smart, smart enough to figure out how to fix this car, skilled enough to put it into practice, confident enough to look at a wreck and say 'I can fix that'. Sam envied him, just a bit, but he'd keep that to himself. Dean might be this guy now, but who knew what it took to get to this point? What Dean had overcome? Sam could tell, just looking at Dean, that whatever horror he'd committed as a child, he'd paid for, had been cured. Still, he shivered when Dean started speaking again. The subject Dean chose was not one Sam wanted to dwell on.
"This reminds me of good days with Dad. You were too young to remember this, but we'd come to these really big truck stops sometimes. They were fun: stores, lunch counters, they even had showers and stuff. Dad let us roam on our own as long as we stayed inside...he'd usually let us pick out a little something if it was cheap enough."
Dean sighed, a little smile on his face, totally unaware that he'd knocked Sam out of his little fantasy world. If everything had been so good, then why had the thing that happened, happened?
"Saddle up, Sammy. We're almost at the end of the run."
Dean grabbed their garbage and winged it into a trash drum at the edge of the picnic stop-did a little fist pump of victory when he hit it square. He hopped in the car, waited for Sam to slide his way in, and then cranked up the radio. He never showed any notice about how quiet Sam was for the rest of the ride.
continued in part two
Dean had the table laid out with takeout containers of the biggest breakfast Sam had ever seen: thick slices of French toast, hash browns, bacon. It was more food than he usually ate in days. And sitting on his side of the table was a big fruit cup, with actual fresh fruit in it. He stared at Dean, wondering how he knew that he liked fruit. He'd never been all that thrilled about meat and grease. Maybe...maybe it was something Dean remembered about him? It was a really uncomfortable thought.
"Looked like something you'd like." Dean shrugged and pushed the fruit closer. "When I first moved in with Uncle Bobby, Bobby Singer-you probably don't remember him-I couldn't get enough home-cooked meals and fruit, man. It was like Treat Day every day. Worst part of constantly bein' on the road was all that fast food shit." He looked up and caught the odd look Sam couldn't keep off his face. "Yeah, you don't remember. We fucking lived on takeout and gas station food for fuck...six years, six years of never enough food, and shitty food when we got it…"
He shook his head, and Sam tentatively asked, "Is..is that why? Because he didn't take good care of us?"
Dean refused to look at Sam. "Eat your breakfast. Shut up."
Sam forced the food down like Dean told him. Besides, it made perfect sense. Sam had no idea when he'd eat again, so best to take advantage of it.
They ate in silence, no sound except the slam of car doors and people coming and going from the rooms. Sam had almost cleared his container of food, bacon and all, before muttering, "Thanks for bringing my clothes with. And, y'know...the picture. It's the only one I have." He glanced over at Dean, and caught the way his face lit up.
"Well, yeah. Had to bring your picture...sorry I forgot that other one." He reached out to Sam, almost touching him, before grabbing his mug instead. "Gotta take care of you, Sam, " he replied softly.
Sam swallowed hard to keep from choking on his food. He concentrated on the last of his French toast like it was a test, struggling to keep a lid on what he was feeling-until it exploded out of him. "Why? Why are you doing this to me? What do you want with me?"
"Look, I know you're freaked out; you think you know what kind of person I am, but you don't. What I'm trying to do is keep you safe, and I can't do that in Cali. I'm so fucking sorry, but we're not going to ruin your life, just...put it on hold for a bit."
"Right." Sam couldn't bury the flash of skepticism, couldn't keep his mouth shut. "Right, you're not going to hurt me, no, but you're going to fuck up my life," he snarled at Dean, held his hand up with index finger and thumb almost touching, "but just a little bit."
He switched fingers so he was flipping Dean off, and Dean just rolled his eyes. "You'll see," he said. "Everything is going to make sense later. I know it felt like you were safe, but you were in...a web. A bad place. I know you're good…"
Sam frowned. Dean's voice had dropped so he barely made that out. 'I know you're good.' What did that mean? Yeah, he was a good guy...well, okay, he was decent, he tried not to be an asshole. "Where are you taking me?"
"Kansas. Take us 'bout four days or so...try and think of it as a road trip with your big brother."
He grinned, and Sam shuddered, his stomach rolled. All he knew about big brothers was frightening and world-ending. He prayed with everything he had that Dean meant it when he said he didn't want to hurt him.
"We don't have the leisure to stop anywhere interesting on the way, but I'll try to make it as good as I can for you, okay? Lots of food stops-already told Missouri that it'll probably take the whole four days." He made an expression that on another person not nuts would be cute. "She said 'thank god'. Like I drive crazy or something. Mothers, psychics...they're all the same."
~o0o~
"So, lawyer, hunh? How'd you come to that?" Dean peeled back the bun on his cheeseburger, poking at tomato slices suspiciously. The diner they'd stopped in promised the 'best darn burgers in the world', so Dean insisted they stop. So far, he'd told Sam, he wasn't all that impressed. Too much lettuce, not enough meat, he'd said.
"Because-" well, Sam didn't think it'd be smart to say he wanted to help put people like his brother away, so he said, "I wanted to help people." Dean beamed at him like he'd done something really clever. Sam nibbled an edge of the world's greatest burger. The lettuce was crisp. That was a nice touch. He resisted patting the burger down with a napkin again-Dean had almost stroked out when Sam did that the first time.
"Yeah, that's good, Sammy. That's what we do, you know, the family business. We help people, we...well, we help people. I'm glad to see it's still in your blood."
"Yeah," Sam said, "well...I'm missing classes, so that's not gonna happen, is it?" He took a bite of his burger-conversation over.
Dean looked ashamed. "Well, I'm not sure Sam. It...no, it might not. We'll have to see."
Sam was smart enough not to yell this time. He figured he'd skirted the edge enough times. Sooner or later, this guy was gonna get tired of being lectured and yelled at, and figure out that dragging Sam around wasn't worth it, and kill him. Or sell him. Or cut him into bits and eat him-why the fuck did he want Sam? Family reunion with what was left? What did Dean want...and just what the fuck did he think he was protecting him from? That was what really scared him….
~o0o~
They spent another night in another crappy motel, courtesy of Clive Campbell-or his credit card, at least. By that time, Sam had concluded that either Dean suffered some sort of multiple personality disorder, or he worked credit card fraud. Sam was too fucking tired to be appalled when he'd finally figured that out. He just asked Dean to for god's sake get a pair of queens because the doubles were just too fucking small for him. Dean had looked at him and laughed for ages.
"Y'think we're stayin' at the Marriott or somethin'? Fuck, if our beds are clear of crawly little company we're good," he snorted.
Of course, that night Sam didn't sleep a wink.
They drove, and drove some more, and Sam thought his legs were going to permanently cramp. "Why don't you have a car made in this century?" he groused. "This car has...is that a cassette player? Are those cassettes?"
"Yeah. Uncle Bobby installed it himself. Looks good, right? He did a great job. Magic hands with cars," Dean stroked the dash like you'd stroke a dog. "This old girl's taken me all around the country, y'know."
Sam looked at the worn beige dash, the old-fashioned dials and switches, and just didn't get it. Why didn't Dean have a CD player? Fucking better A/C? Cassettes, Jesus….
He flicked through the box Dean had plopped in his lap. "These are all old guy music tapes," he complained. "Black Sabbath. Motorhead. Metallica. It's the greatest hits of mullet rock. You're like an old guy shoved into a young guy's body, listening to old guy music and driving an old guy car."
"Hey, hey, hey, no dissin' the Chevelle, man." Dean patted the odd, three-spoke steering wheel, huffed a breath on her emblem, a fleur-de-lis, before buffing it in exaggerated motions. "Don't listen to him, Baby. You got my heart; he's just m'pain-in-the-ass little brother."
Sam actually laughed at that; surprisingly, he felt a bit lighter than he had in days, flying down the highway in an old...what did Dean call it? "A Chevelle?"
"Yep. A '68 SS 396. A classic, and she's my baby."
Sam stared out the window, frowning. Something seemed off, like most faint memories he had of the time...before. "This car. It's like, I should know it, it's almost familiar. But it's off." He pressed his palm against the vinyl seat, ran his other hand over the padding on the door. "I think. This is different."
Dean raised his eyebrows, shot Sam a look before concentrating really hard on the road ahead. "Well, I picked her because it reminded me of Dad's-our dad's-car. 1967 Chevy Impala, black as sin, beautiful car. Long gone. Got impounded, and Uncle Bobby couldn't find her. Truth to tell, he was a lot more concerned with saving me from some...juvenile psych ward than looking for a car. Not that he wasn't worried about you, too. It was just, well, he knew where you were and that you were safe, but me...anyway, when I was a little kid he promised me a car to replace her, and when I was old enough to work on one, I chose this."
Sam looked at Dean. He looked so fucking happy, drumming his fingers against the wheel, smiling. The sun lit him up like...like magic. Turned him into Apollo….
"I'm sorry we lost the car, Sammy, but Baby here is loyal. She's going to take to you, because you're family.
~o0o~
Sometimes around their third night out, Dean said, kind of halfheartedly, "I guess we're going to have to talk about all this. Soon."
At that point, Sam was at a place where he wasn't waking up in terror anymore. He barely woke in dread; In fact, after all the hours spent together on the road, he'd begun looking at Dean a little differently. And Dean was smiling at him, his expression much happier, with less agonized shame lurking in his eyes. As time went by, Sam was beginning to believe him when Dean assured him that he wasn't going to kill him, and less inclined to automatically dismiss him when Dean said he hadn't killed their father. Maybe...maybe something happened in which Dean honestly didn't believe he was in the wrong for killing their father. And from the little tidbits Dean dropped about the man, Sam was beginning to build a picture of a somewhat abusive, more times then not, absentee father.
Except...sorrow radiated from Dean when he talked about their dad. It was obvious that Dean, regardless of what Sam thought of him, had adored their father. The man had never been more than a symbol of lost family to Sam. He had no memories of him, even though he'd been six when the man died.
Making Dean ten.
Making the kid who'd supposedly fed and practically raised Sam, and had killed the man who was their father, only ten when it happened. Holy shit. Dean couldn't have been in jail for the last sixteen years...could he? They didn't put little kids in jail, no matter what they did, right? He remembered asking Mom and Dad when he was little where Dean was, and they just said he was locked up. Sam never really asked more than that…why hadn't he questioned it? Why not when he'd grown up? How could he have forgotten this man?
"Okay, Dean."
"Hmm," Dean replied, bent over a small leather journal, and as far as Sam could see, pretending he hadn't heard his name. "What is it, Sam?" he murmured.
"So talk already. You said you wanted to, so...what happened? Why did it happen?"
Dean sighed, like he'd been waiting, with no enthusiasm, for this question. He tossed the book down on the bed he'd claimed, and leaned back against its headboard. "Not yet, Sam, not everything. But I can tell you something about our lives. You won't believe me...and you definitely won't like it. Or me. But it's what I can give you now."
~o0o~
Dean rubbed his face, hard. Sam watched his hands move, thought how unlike his they were, shorter fingers, wider palms, red knuckles laces with thin white lines. The back of his hands were dotted with fine scars as well, some only recently healed. Was he a fighter, Sam wondered, or...a gangster? A construction worker...a really mean librarian? He yelled for the goofy part of his mind to shut up, and watched Dean's expression shift, going harder, when he dropped his hands.
"Ghosts are real."
Oh fuck, Sam thought. It's worse than he'd imagined; Dean truly was insane.
"It's okay, I know you don't believe it. But they are, and almost any monster you can imagine is real."
Sam's mouth ran away with him. "Vampires?"
"Nah, they're extinct," Dean said, casually as if Sam had asked him if there was any milk left.
"But werewolves are real, and genies are real, and a whole lot of stuff you don't even know the name of. But our Dad did." Dean held up the book he had been reading. "Later on, we'll take a look together. But yep, Dad knew his shit. Well, our Dad knew what he knew, but Bobby, and Pastor Jim, and Travis, and a few others, knew more-like, the shades of gray between the black and white our Dad wanted the world to be. Easier for him that way…."
Sam took a few deep breaths, trying to head off the anxiety attack that being crammed into a postage size room with a really fit whack-job was percolating.
"Whoa, whoa, Sam," Dean snapped, catching Sam's arms. 'Hey, buddy, don't check out, okay? I promise, it's okay."
Sam actually felt himself comforted by that. Dean had a way of being so...there...and he'd dropped his voice down into a mellow, silky tone that felt like it was just for Sam.
"Can I…?" Dean asked, and gently eased Sam closer, giving Sam lots of time to pull away, until his head was tucked under Dean's chin and Sam almost cried, it felt so right. Whack-job or not, it felt good to be surrounded by Dean...which meant that somewhere along the way, Sam had lost all of his own marbles.
"I gotta tell you this stuff, and I know you're gonna think I'm crazy but...don't matter. You think what you want. Maybe as time goes by you'll see I'm tellin' the truth, and I hope to god it's just through research or something, and not from practical experience. Anyway...ghost stories and horror movies get it right sometime. Anytime you've been afraid of something lurking in the dark, worried that there's something out there that wants to hurt you, you've been right. Yes. There are monsters and a lot of them, most of them, do want to kill you. What our Dad did was stop them. We protect people. Our Dad raised me to be a hunter and he was gonna raise you to be that too. Only, he...things changed. Now, I got this book, belonged to our Dad, and I'm gonna take you to see people who'll explain it better than me, but what it boils down to is our family's always done its best to protect the helpless."
Sam shook his head, realized what he was doing only when Dean stopped the movement between his hands. Dean's hands smelled, Sam thought, like...hunh. Like safe; a metallic scent, a machine smell, something else, like some kind of herb….
"Sammy? Hey, Sammy?"
"You keep calling me that," Sam choked out. "I hate it. It makes me sound like a stupid little kid, like I'm helpless."
"Oh, fuck no," Dean said, "last thing you are is helpless. But. I'll stop if that's what you want. I'm sorry it upsets you."
Strength drained out of Sam, Dean's hands on him the only thing holding his head up. "My dad...he called me Sammy. Right before you shot him. Begged me to help him."
"Oh, Sam-oh no, that 's not what-shit. I'll explain, soon. Just...that wasn't Dad. Not really. I swear I'll explain, but we need...we need to talk to my friend, Missouri Moseley. You'll understand the truth when we go to her."
~o0o~
Sam felt trapped, unable to drag himself out of the mental pit he'd fallen into. He felt like he was swimming in molasses, in so deep he could barely hold his head up. He wanted to be afraid, but he was too damn tired to be. All day, every day, everywhere he looked, he saw Dean with his hands outstretched, face permanently locked into a sympathetic grimace. What can I give you Sammy what can I do for you Sammy how can I help you Sammy but Sam was too tired to tell him. 'You can't, please leave me the fuck alone, go away, leave me be.'
He was exhausted and resentful, scared shitless; even worse, more and more he was beginning to wonder if there was a kernel of truth in this stuff that Dean swore by. But somehow, magically, whenever he was ready to lose his last vestige of sanity, Dean went and did that thing. That thing where he gathered Sam up and held him close. Tucked him under his chin. And every single fucking time it brought Sam peace, despite having to curl over and tuck himself in to gain that spot. Sam closed his eyes and imagined being there now, Dean's heat enveloping him, Dean's rock-hard arms somehow feeling like the softest place he could be.
Sam blinked lazily and shifted on his bed. Was this Stockholm syndrome…? Was he imprinting on Dean in some way? Sam figured it was really a shame, because Dean was fucking insane. A great, big, soft, warm, crazy motherfucker.
He eased onto his back and sighed. It was night, and Dean was out-going to get a drink he said, but the wink he'd tossed Sam's way was a tip-off to the kind of evening Dean had planned for himself. That waitress in the diner earlier had practically climbed Dean like a pole. Sam pouted. And then he bit his cheek. What the fuck, the guy was his brother-besides, what was he miffed about? No matter how Dean treated him, or what he said, they essentially were strangers to each other. What did it matter to Sam whether he dipped his dick or not? Besides, the fear that Dean would kill someone without Sam's eyes on him had faded considerably.
Whatever had happened back when they were kids, Sam was sure Dean wasn't a-a natural born killer. He'd killed their Dad, but he wasn't a killer per se. Something had happened that had led to their dad's death at Dean's hands, but...no way was Dean a cold-blooded murderer.
It was freaking confusing, and Sam was getting a headache thinking about it. He rolled onto his side again, and thought about running, in an idle sort of way. Dean hadn't cuffed him since that first time, and Sam didn't know why he hadn't run after that. The soles of his feet itched as he thought about it. Stockholm syndrome, that had to be it.
He squashed a flash of relief when he heard scratching at the door, and sat up when it slowly swung open.
"Dea-Oh my god, Jess! Jess!" Sam scrambled off the bed, tripping over his feet in his haste to get to the door, sliding through the salt Dean had spread there amid dire warnings not to move it-screwball.
"Jess, oh my fuckin' god, how did you find me?"
They fell into each others arms, Sam gripping Jess like she was a buoy in storm-wracked seas. He rained kisses on her, desperate kisses she returned with equal fervor. "Oh god, oh god...how?" He pulled back and asked again. "How did you find me? Where were you?"
"Oh baby, I was determined. And now I'm here to save you. That guy you left with, he's a killer, Sam. What are you doing with him?"
"Well, shit, he forced me, Jess, I didn't-oh god I was so scared for you-he didn't touch you did he? He swore he didn't-"
"No, no, he didn't touch me. Though I gotta tell you, Sammy-kins, if he'd offered, I'd have jumped on that dick like it was candy. No wonder you can't keep your eyes off him! The way you drool...gotta say, puppy, I had no idea you actually swung that way! I mean, remember spring break and that party at Benny's? Totes thought that one time we partied with what's-his-name was due to me and loads of tequila! Hell, I love seeing pretty boys go at it like that."
She smiled down at Sam, her expression a creepy mixture of the kind of fondness a person felt for a pet-and lust. Sam choked back sudden nausea as she cupped his cheek, let her hand slide down to wrap delicately around his neck. She leaned closer, whispering in his ear, "I really should have known-you had it in you all the time, didn't you, you dirty little boy, you."
Sam felt the air roaring in his chest, clogging his throat; the space between his ears an echoing hollow that a hurricane swirled in to fill.
What. The. Hell. Was. Happening?
"Je...Jess?"
"Sure, I'm Jess, I'm your pretty blonde, your green-eyed Jess." She pointed at her eyes, smirking. "Just the shade you like, right? Though I gotta say, I wonder why...oh well, no, I guess I don't, seeing as how Dean has the same kind of pretty green eyes. Your brother. Tsk."
"Jess, wha-no!" He was stuck in a nightmare, had to be, he must have only thought he was awake. Because his sweet, loving Jess just threw him across the room. Sam crashed into the bed and went flying across the slick, cheap bed cover to slam against the wall. "Oh fuck, what...what's happening? Jess-" he croaked, still feeling the grip of her hands on his neck.
"Keep it down, you idiot," she hissed. "Now I'm going to have to drag your giant ass back to Stanford and kill that pain-in-the ass brother of yours. After all the trouble we went through to separate you two tiny snots. Just kill him, I said, but noooo, they had plans, he might be useful, they said."
She leaned over Sam, and her expression was...Jess eating pizza. Mildly happy, little smile curving her pink mouth; she licked her lips and said, "I think we should have sex first. I really enjoy your big dick. So fucking hot, the way you turn from a shy nebbish to a fuckin' freak in the sack, damn, you sure can-"
"Jess, please!" Sam shouted, and Jess reared back, snarling.
"Okay, that's it," she snapped and snapped her fingers. A vicious convulsion whipped across Sam's mouth-his lips felt like they'd suddenly become iron. He grunted and screamed and roared behind his teeth, but he couldn't move his lips or open his mouth or lift his tongue. Jess leaned back into his face, mouth twisted with a horribly un-Jess-like grin. She blinked, and Sam shivered at her pure black eyes. She looked like that demon granny in Legion...she looked like she'd like to eat his face and was just holding herself back by a thread.
You're not Jess, he thought and she whispered, "Bingo," like she'd read his mind.
"I haven't been Jess in a long fucking time, buddy. Jess has shuffled off this mortal coil. Well, okay, maybe she was pushed, just a teeny bit. If it means anything, dear Sam, she really did love you. At first. Until she realized you were the reason I moved in, and then...she hated you like you wouldn't believe. I got myself off to the depth of her hatred a few times, Sunshine. Man, how she wished you dead-"
Three things happened at once: there was gunshot, there was blood, everywhere and Jess dropped flat onto his face.
"Sam!" Dean fell through the doorway, gun drawn, and his arm shaking.
Sam lay there under the weight of his dead girlfriend. Or...someone who looked like his girlfriend. Something...he screamed when Jess suddenly lifted her head, grinning at him with a mouth full of bloody teeth.
"Surprise!"
"Sam, don't move," Dean shouted.
Don't move? Don't move? Was he insane? His...Jess was bleeding on him. Jess was, she was-
She moved faster than any human he'd ever seen. She clocked Dean, knocked him into a wall; Sam heard a sharp crack. Dean's gun went flying, and he dropped to one knee, digging frantically in his jacket before staggering upright and tossing...water? Throwing water into her face, and suddenly steam covered her whole head and she was screaming.
For a horrible, whacked-out few seconds he thought Jess' face was on fire. She jumped backward, crashing into the window. Her elbow smashed through the glass; shards and blood sprayed outwards. Chill air whipped through the room, the drapes catching on the shards still trapped in the frame.
She crouched on the sill just for a minute, and wiggled her fingers in the kind of wave they both used to think was funny, little bougie wave, and blew him a kiss before vanishing into the dark.
The minute he lost sight of her, the weird paralysis disappeared-his mouth worked again. "Dean? Dean?" Sam repeated his name until Dean staggered into view.
"Sam, you're okay, yeah?" He quickly ran his hands over Sam's torso, his arms, grimacing at the blood but looking relieved that none of it was Sam's. "Yeah, you're okay…"
Dean's hands were on Sam's face when Sam grabbed at them, pinning them in place. "Dean, what was that? I don't understand. What happened? Jess, she…?"
"Sammy...that wasn't Jess, okay? Whatever she said to you, it was a lie. That's what they do; they lie."
"They? What they? What do you mean?" Sam was aware that he had Dean's hands trapped against his face, but he couldn't let go, the thought of Dean not touching him was worse than...than Jess dying on his chest and coming back to life. "Help me!"
"Oh, Sammy. God, I'm so sorry, I know she was...you loved her. I'm so sorry."
"Dean, is she...is she dead?"
Dean nodded, and the grip of his hands softened under Sam's. His thumb swept back and forth across Sam's temple and his eyes dropped. "I'm sorry, Sam, more than likely, she is. They...she probably didn't suffer; most of the times the possessed are...unaware," he said, but Sam was pretty sure his brother just lied to him.
"But what happened? Her eyes were, oh god..."
"Demons. She had black eyes, right? Yeah, possessed." Dean sighed. "A monster took your girlfriend. I can't tell you how or when. It could have happened...at any time, Sam. No one can tell. Sometimes people notice a loved one is acting strange-withdrawn, or. Or mean. Cruel. Or just differently."
"Differently..." Sam slowly let Dean draw his hands away, instantly missing the heat. "I...oh god, Jess was...she was always sarcastic, but funny, y'know? Though lately, yeah...she's been kind of mean. Just little things at first; picking at me, her friends, jabbing at our sore spots, private things, you know? Getting more and more vicious, I guess. And…" he stopped, mouth dropping, eyes growing wide. "And Brady-Tyson, my best friend. Out of the blue, he's turned into a real asshole. He came back from break and he was-so different. Mean. Like, like Jess.…"
Sam's voice trailed off into silence as he stared at Dean, waiting for him to tell Sam he was fine, Brady was fine, Jess was fine.
"Shit." Dean sighed, and blew Sam's fragile hope out of the water. "Shit...we are so screwed." Dean shook his head, both hands coming up to scrub at his face.
"Why? Why are we screwed?"
"Not now, Sam. Right now, we've got to make tracks. Missouri's waiting, and we don't want to get stuck payin' for the fuckin' window."
~o0o~
Sam never imagined there'd come a day he'd skip out on a motel, but he was living a lot of stuff outside the realm of his imagination these days..
Under Dean's terse order, Sam packed faster than he ever had in his life. He shoved his pitiful handful of clothes and toiletries (and Jess' shirt, and the picture Dean had known to bring) into a skinny backpack Dean had given him, then packed Dean's clothes into a big, beat-up, old duffle bag. Meanwhile, Dean had packed all the pointy and dangerous things into a bag that came from out of the air, apparently. Sam had no memory of Dean dragging a bag full of weapons into the room with him. He was glad that he hadn't noticed. Weapons that weren't a bat, or a steak knife under the pillow, made him really nervous.
Right before they'd slipped out of the room, Sam noticed that Dean dropped a couple of bills on the table. Dean caught him looking and flushed. He cut his eyes away and mumbled, "Hey, someone's gonna get stuck cleaning this shit up."
Sam was still thinking about that when they were on the road. He was beginning to think maybe something was wrong in the story he'd always been told. Was it possible that a kid could be a...a cold-blooded killer, and then...change? Heal? Maybe Dean's time had been spent in a psych facility; maybe it had helped him change.
Or maybe, everyone along the way had been wrong about Dean. Sam just didn't know how, or who, to ask. Things had been strained with his folks since he'd...well, it wasn't running away from home when you left for college. Unless you were Pat and Bill Mazur…then you were being the ungrateful kid who refused to take over the family business and had the temerity to gain a full fucking ride to one of the best universities in the nation.
Sam took a deep breath and looked over at Dean, whose whole attention was on the road, a little contented smile bowing his lips...damn it. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd gone from bone-chilling fear to-to this odd fascination. He just couldn't...he couldn't make that connection, it wouldn't click, that this guy was his brother-his sibling and besides that, he wasn't even attracted to guys in that way, damn it.
Except somehow, to some degree, he was. He kept staring at Dean, trying to figure out why in such a short amount of time, Sam felt so strongly about him. He spent a lot of time watching the sunlight shift over Dean as they moved. He got lost in the light traveling across Dean's cheekbones, the way shadow curved over the swell of his lip. Wasn't there a word for this bizarre attraction? Some kind of effect, a syndrome? Just what the fuck was this sudden gaying-up of his aesthetic sense?
He dropped his eyes to his lap, watching his fingers try to strangle each other. He'd be fine. He just needed some air. And a little space, like, two or three states between himself and Dean….
"How ya doin' over there, Sammy-I mean Sam? You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm. I'm alright, I guess."
"Good, good. I see there's a chance you'll take to this life of crime."
"Dean!"
Dean just chuckled, like everything was a-okay, then gave Sam a quick wink and a brief smile that Sam was physically incapable of not returning, at least a little bit. The fucker.
~o0o~
Sam experienced the sensation of falling asleep and starting a new day waking up in a moving car. Another first. Waking up when the sun was just starting to rise on the road was oddly...beautiful. Watching the light go from gray to gold, seeing the countryside wake up-Sam had never experienced it. His eyes were fixed on the brightening horizon and Dean, Dean seemed to get it. The radio was low; Sam could hear the tires humming against the asphalt and snatches of sound coming in through the slightly cracked window. The air rushing through was chilly, but only enough to wake him. At the moment, he was content to be silent, until he turned to Dean, who was watching him with that fond look...and a touch of something else in his eyes.
Sam dropped his eyes. The green of Dean's eyes were so close to Jess' color. His heart squeezed painfully, wishing he knew exactly where she was, what was happening to her, whether Dean was right and she was...was actually gone; he gasped when the touch of Dean's hand broke into his increasingly darker thoughts.
"Whadaya say, Sammy-darn it, Sam, sorry-you ready to stop?"
Dean's words sent a little twinge through him. Yes, definitely. Sam nodded. "Yeah, that'd be good."
They stopped at the first gas station they saw, Sam unbuckling when Dean did, watching Dean as he gassed up the Chevelle, then following him across the parking lot. They reached the doors and Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulder just as he reached out for the door handle, stopping him. "Hey, uh, it's-it's okay if you call me Sammy, sometimes. I guess...you saved me, I think. So, yeah, it's okay."
Dean gave Sam a look that made the sunrise he'd watched that morning seem pitifully bland. Sam blinked, and dropped his hand like he'd been burned. Dean didn't seem to notice though, he swaggered through the glass doors like he owned the place, whistling some tune Sam didn't recognize. Was catchy, though.
Dean took him around the gas station and pointed out what was safe and was was not. "Burritos, Sammy, avoid them like the plague, and anything that's got fish in it unless you're in a fish state. Anything sealed in plastic is okay. Anything like a Twinkie or a Hostess cupcake is always okay because that shit'll survive a thermonuclear war."
Dean bought them sandwiches and sodas, and drove them around to the back of the lot. They ate, leaning against the royal-blue car. Sam listened to Dean describe how he'd painted her, from prep to why he chose blue over black. "Royal blue, Sam, the color of kings."
Sam just chewed and nodded, and didn't add that purple was actually the color of kings, not when Dean seemed so pleased with himself. Sam ran a hand over the Chevelle's roof, trying to imagine sanding and prepping his own car to paint, rebuilding the engine on his own. He couldn't picture building a car basically from the ground up. Dean must feel pretty damn good about himself, Sam thought. He was smart, smart enough to figure out how to fix this car, skilled enough to put it into practice, confident enough to look at a wreck and say 'I can fix that'. Sam envied him, just a bit, but he'd keep that to himself. Dean might be this guy now, but who knew what it took to get to this point? What Dean had overcome? Sam could tell, just looking at Dean, that whatever horror he'd committed as a child, he'd paid for, had been cured. Still, he shivered when Dean started speaking again. The subject Dean chose was not one Sam wanted to dwell on.
"This reminds me of good days with Dad. You were too young to remember this, but we'd come to these really big truck stops sometimes. They were fun: stores, lunch counters, they even had showers and stuff. Dad let us roam on our own as long as we stayed inside...he'd usually let us pick out a little something if it was cheap enough."
Dean sighed, a little smile on his face, totally unaware that he'd knocked Sam out of his little fantasy world. If everything had been so good, then why had the thing that happened, happened?
"Saddle up, Sammy. We're almost at the end of the run."
Dean grabbed their garbage and winged it into a trash drum at the edge of the picnic stop-did a little fist pump of victory when he hit it square. He hopped in the car, waited for Sam to slide his way in, and then cranked up the radio. He never showed any notice about how quiet Sam was for the rest of the ride.
continued in part two