On Our Own, 3/11, PG-13, Gen, AU
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Title: On Our Own
Chapter: 3 of ?
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Through the end of season 5, though especially for 5x04.
Disclaimer: None of this is mine.
Summary: AU. When Sam is fifteen, his dad makes a decision based on a dark future he was apparently shown by an 'angel': split his sons up and abandon his youngest to keep that future at bay. Dean refuses to let it happen, but if they want to stay together, there's only one option: run.
Wordcount: This chapter, 2,922.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11A
Part 11B
Epilogue (to come!)
The outside was colder than Sam had thought. April in the Dakotas was still a bitch. He glanced up at the house out of instinct, looking towards the window that was their dad's. For half a second, he was certain he'd see a shadow watching them, judging them, waiting to be proven right, that Sam was a troublemaker leading Dean around into danger. Into doing stupid things.
But the window remained dark and empty, and Sam let out a shaky breath he could see. Damn it was cold outside. He shrugged a little deeper into his coat, his hands still holding onto his brother and his bag.
“We'll take the car,” Dean said, eyes scanning the yard. “We need to push it off the lot, though. She makes a lot of noise starting up.”
Sam stared at Dean long enough to make his brother turn back. “What?” Dean asked.
“You realize that Dad will kill you if you take the car?” Sam said incredulously, then stopped at his own words. No matter what they did, their dad would be angry at them. And this wasn't Dean taking the Impala out to see a girl: this was Dean taking the Impala for good.
Dean gave a snort. “One, I don't care. Two, he's got that damn truck. He'll be fine,” he said in a tone that stated he truly didn't care what happened to Dad's ride.
Wasn't like the car didn't belong to Dean: Dad had signed the title over to Dean on his eighteenth birthday and tossed him the keys. Dad himself had gotten a beaten-up used truck, swore it would be good enough for him to get around in until he found something he wanted more. The truck was white with a blue stripe down the side, and the only time Sam had been in it had been a bumpy ride he'd hated.
That had probably been more to do with the company than the truck itself, actually.
Pushing the car was actually a lot more difficult than Sam had anticipated it being. One, the car was heavy. Two, Bobby's driveway, if it could even be called that, was covered in small stones, which made it hard to push against. Three, the gravel made it loud, and left both Dean and Sam wincing at every little displacement of the stones.
But most importantly, the damn car was heavy.
By the time they made it the twenty something feet to the road, Sam wasn't cold anymore. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, and he felt like every deep breath was loud enough to be heard from the house. Even Dean was gasping for air, taking a moment to lean against the vehicle. “Oh baby, why you gotta hate me?” Dean moaned quietly.
From behind them, Bobby's dog began to bark. Sam froze, head whipping back towards the house. Sure enough, Bobby's dog was barking happily at seeing the both of them, having just now caught sight of the brothers. If he didn't shut up, Bobby would come out or look, or worse, their dad would, and then-
Sam suddenly felt himself being tugged, hard, backwards. He struggled to get his feet beneath him as Dean pulled him towards the front of the car. “Get in, now,” Dean said urgently.
They weren't far enough away from Bobby's. “Dean, we can't-”
“We don't have a choice,” Dean insisted. With one hand he opened the driver's side door; the other hand he used to shove Sam through to the passenger seat. “Get in!”
The dog kept barking. Any minute now, Bobby was going to turn on a light and come out looking. Sam scrambled across the seat to the opposite side of the car, heart beating a staccato rhythm and making his stomach sick.
Dean slid in fast, slammed the door, and started the car. The engine roared to life, and Sam cringed and buried his head. Like it was going to do any good.
At least Dean didn't floor it with a peal of tires. He took off slowly, steadily building speed until even Sam could tell they were going faster than any speed limit on the road would dictate. It wasn't helping with the sick feeling.
What if Bobby and Dad had both come out to see what was going on? They'd find the Impala gone and check the bedroom and find both of them gone and then come chasing out after them-
“Breathe,” Dean ordered, his voice louder now that they were away. Sam took in a deep gulping breath and realized his lungs were burning, spots dancing across his vision from the lack of air. Dean's hand fell on the back of Sam's neck and tightened around him. For some reason, it helped. The volume of his voice was a welcoming distraction, too. It meant it was just the two of them, safe in the Impala. No need for whispering. Safe as houses.
For now. Until Dad caught up with them. “Dean,” Sam whispered miserably, and found to his utter humiliation that tears were burning in his eyes. He buried his head even further into his arms.
“We'll stay clear,” Dean promised, as if able to read his mind. “I'll keep you safe. I swear to God, Sammy, he won't take us apart. I won't let him.”
There was only so much Dean could do. But Sam knew, above all, that he'd keep them both safe, Sam more safe than Dean in all likeliness. Dean would rather die than let anything happen to Sam.
It was more than Dad was willing to do. Sam bit his bottom lip in an attempt to keep himself from crying. Their dad. Sure, they had their fights, their arguments, but that was what teens did with their parents: they fought. They didn't agree on anything. But they loved each other in the end, dammit. They were supposed to. If someone had asked Sam to take a bullet for their dad yesterday, he wouldn't have hesitated. He probably still would.
How long ago had Dad let him go? How long ago would Dad have stopped taking a bullet for Sam?
Fuck it hurt. It burned way more than Sam thought it should. He remembered when he'd been his dad's 'baby boy', held and loved and smiled at. He remembered when his dad had showed him how to fire a gun, with only a little impatience. Remembered his dad tucking him in at night, watching over him.
He didn't realize he was outright gasping for air until he was being tugged again, this time over into the familiar cocoon of Dean's embrace. He fought to breathe and stop his tears from flowing, fought to be the strong individual Dean needed him to be. They'd have to both be adults to stay ahead of Dad, not one barely legal and one teenager.
All the while, Dean was hushing and whispering words of comfort, promising things that he shouldn't. That Dad wouldn't find them. That everything would be okay.
Sam finally gave up on all pretenses and buried his head in Dean's leather jacket. Here, at least, he was wanted. Here, he was loved.
He closed his eyes and let himself drift away.
He awoke to the sound of the car stopping. One would think it would be a lack of sound, but the Impala made sounds all her own when she stopped. The engine rumbled just a little louder before it shut off. Then, other noises were heard, small hissings and clankings and the rush of fluids as everything came down from the heated run of a few hundred miles. The jangling of keys as they were pulled from the ignition.
And the one sound Sam always associated with the Impala stopping: Dean's voice.
This time, it came with a small nudge, Dean's shoulder still underneath his head. “Sammy, wake up,” Dean said softly. “We gotta stop.”
The memories of the past day - had it been a day? How long had he been asleep? - didn't come crashing in all at once. They filtered in from the back of his mind, quickly becoming loud and clear. He shuddered and reluctantly opened his eyes.
The sky was a light gray through the Impala's windshield, making it impossible to tell the time. “We need to fill up the car,” Dean told him. He carefully pushed Sam up to sitting, gaze tired but still worried. “You feel like eating?”
Sam felt like sleeping for another hundred years. Food sounded disgusting. But they couldn't afford to sleep now, not with Dad probably closing in on them. This outreach, wherever they'd gone to, this had to have pushed Dean's limits. His brother looked exhausted, and it was light enough out that they were looking at breakfast time. Driving straight for hours on end when they'd been up all the day before? It was the perfect time to crash.
And their Dad probably knew it. He'd work out the distance of how far the Impala would go, how exhausted the boys had to be, and estimate where they'd stop. And he'd probably pick...wherever they'd gotten to. Stopping to fill up was dangerous as it was.
But Dean looked ready to fall asleep on his feet. “You need to sleep, Dean,” Sam voiced reluctantly.
Dean's eyes narrowed. “No I don't,” he insisted. “C'mon. There's a restaurant attached to the gas station.”
If Dean was trying to use food to wake him up, they were screwed. “Dean, you're exhausted,” Sam tried again. “And your arm's probably dead from my sleeping on it. We'll just...park the car behind a building and catch a few zz's, then keep going.”
He didn't get an answer. Instead Dean popped the door open and slid out, only turning back to grab Sam by the hand and pull him out in one easy slide. When Sam had been little, Dad had been the one to pull him out, using his arm strength to slide Sam along the seat until the last minute, then hoisting him out and into the air. Sam would giggle and shriek with laughter, Dean would insist he wasn't too big to be pulled out and he wanted to do it too, and Dad would smile.
Sam shut his eyes again. The darkness behind his lids gave him a small respite from the day outside, but nothing from the memories inside.
“Snag a table,” Dean ordered, but his voice was gentle as he gave Sam a small shove towards the restaurant. “Let me fill her up and I'll be right in behind you.”
Sam nodded, still feeling like he was in a daze, like he wasn't quite awake yet. He stumbled up the stairs to the restaurant, thankful for someone who held the door open for him. Somehow, he managed to get a table and two menus from a small teenage girl who looked just as exhausted as he was, but still able to give him a genuine smile and tell him the specials of the day. Not that Sam paid any attention, but he nodded in all the right places and let her walk away when she was done. Then he turned to stare at the menu, hoping something would jump out at him and say, “Hello, I want to be eaten today!”
He didn't realize he'd zoned out until a hand waved in his face. “Sammy?” Dean called, sounding as if he'd been calling for awhile. Sam blinked and looked up. Dean was already seated in front of him, and there were two sodas on the table.
It was then that Sam couldn't take it anymore. The silent and invisible elephant he hadn't really known existed came forward and sat on his chest, and he blurted it out before the feeling crushed the breath out of his body.
“Dean, what are we going to do?”
If Dean looked surprised to hear it, he gave no indication. His shoulders slumped downward, like he'd been expecting it but hadn't been able to say it himself. “I don't know,” he said honestly.
“We can't keep driving forever,” Sam pointed out, unable to stop himself from stating the obvious.
“I know.”
“And we don't have passports, so we can't go to Mexico.”
“I know.”
“And Dad knows hunters in Canada, so that's out, too.”
“I know, Sammy.”
“And we're gonna run out of money, and I-I want to finish high school, but Dad...Dad'll find us if we settle down somewhere and if I go to school a-and-”
“Hey!”
The whispered shout caught Sam halfway through his ramblings, and he swallowed them back and found himself choking for air. He grabbed the soda in front of him and took four huge gulps to clear his throat and settle is stomach. When he put the soda down, he could almost pretend that the tears rolling down his face were from the choking episode.
Dean leaned almost all the way across the table, napkin in hand. “I know,” he repeated, dabbing at Sam's cheeks and wiping away the tears. He bit his lip, looking far older than his teenage years. “We're screwed, Sammy. I know.”
Sam swallowed hard again, this time managing to continue breathing. More tears threatened, and Sam scrunched up his face to keep them at bay. “I'm sorry,” he gritted out. “God, I'm sorry. You don't need this right now. I need to help.”
“Hey, you're fine,” Dean said with a small, almost nervous laugh. “Better you than me.”
It wasn't an insult, and Sam knew it. If Sam fell apart, then Dean could focus on that, and not fall apart himself as a result. Sam just really hated being the one that fell apart.
“You could take a turn,” Sam grumbled, and succeeded in getting a more genuine laugh out of his brother. Still a tad hysterical, but Sam felt the same way, so he'd take it.
It still left the same huge question between them, but at least now Sam was feeling as if they could fight back instead of winding up crushed beneath the opposition. And he was really starting to hate those moments of hope: they only made the inevitable falls that much more dramatic and tear inducing. And he was fifteen, crying like the drop of a hat was thirteen or fourteen, maybe. Not fifteen.
Of course, at fifteen, he was supposedly able to fend for himself if abandoned on the side of the road.
“Pick something to eat,” Dean said, nudging the menu towards him. “And actually eat it. We'll think better if we've got food in our stomachs.”
And sleep for their body, but apparently they were only getting one of two. Sam actually put focus into reading the menu and almost had a choice made before something else caught his attention. “Dean?” he asked calmly. “How are we gonna pay for this?”
“I've got the card, don't worry,” Dean said offhandedly, and Sam could almost feel the moment his brother froze with realization. If he hadn't felt it, the groaned, “Oh shit,” would've clued him in.
It was nice, actually, to sit and think about this as a problem instead of everything else. “How long until Dad tries to follow the credit cards you've got in your pocket?”
“I just used one to pay for gas,” Dean said weakly, head leaning forward towards the table. “God I'm stupid. I didn't even think, Sammy.”
“It's not your fault,” Sam insisted. “We didn't exactly think any of this through. We just ran.” And it wasn't getting them anywhere except scared, tired, and stressed out to the point of tears. No, it was well past the time to regroup and really think, except neither of them had the energy to do it. And now Dad was probably already on his way. He'd have flagged the damn accounts telling him when the money was used and where.
“Might as well pay for lunch with it,” Sam told his brother, who was still looking at the table like he wanted to smack his head into it. “It's not like he doesn't know we're here and where we're headed.”
The idea hit him so fast Sam felt like he was going to fall out of his seat. “What?” Dean asked, watching him now. “You okay?”
“We have to go back,” Sam said. “Turn around and go back.”
Dean's eyes widened. “Go back? Sammy-”
“Not go forward,” Sam said urgently, and this hope thing was going to kill him one of these days. “Go back.”
It took Dean all of five seconds to catch on to what Sam was saying, and when he did, his lips curled up into a proud grin. “Not bad, Sammy,” he said. “Not bad. Dad's gonna think we kept going east when really-”
“We turned back around,” they finished together. They were going to have to out-think their dad on everything, but this plan might work. Take a slightly different highway back west, then sit and think about their next move when they could breathe. This would throw Dad off for a little bit, at least.
“I'll ask the waitress for the fastest way to the east coast,” Dean added, and Sam's own mouth tugged up into a smile. Waitresses remembered Dean; it was kind of hard for them not to. Dean knew it, Sam knew it, but most of all, Dad knew it. And Dean was banking on that fact right now.
They might make this.
Chapter 4
~Nebula
Title: On Our Own
Chapter: 3 of ?
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Through the end of season 5, though especially for 5x04.
Disclaimer: None of this is mine.
Summary: AU. When Sam is fifteen, his dad makes a decision based on a dark future he was apparently shown by an 'angel': split his sons up and abandon his youngest to keep that future at bay. Dean refuses to let it happen, but if they want to stay together, there's only one option: run.
Wordcount: This chapter, 2,922.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11A
Part 11B
Epilogue (to come!)
The outside was colder than Sam had thought. April in the Dakotas was still a bitch. He glanced up at the house out of instinct, looking towards the window that was their dad's. For half a second, he was certain he'd see a shadow watching them, judging them, waiting to be proven right, that Sam was a troublemaker leading Dean around into danger. Into doing stupid things.
But the window remained dark and empty, and Sam let out a shaky breath he could see. Damn it was cold outside. He shrugged a little deeper into his coat, his hands still holding onto his brother and his bag.
“We'll take the car,” Dean said, eyes scanning the yard. “We need to push it off the lot, though. She makes a lot of noise starting up.”
Sam stared at Dean long enough to make his brother turn back. “What?” Dean asked.
“You realize that Dad will kill you if you take the car?” Sam said incredulously, then stopped at his own words. No matter what they did, their dad would be angry at them. And this wasn't Dean taking the Impala out to see a girl: this was Dean taking the Impala for good.
Dean gave a snort. “One, I don't care. Two, he's got that damn truck. He'll be fine,” he said in a tone that stated he truly didn't care what happened to Dad's ride.
Wasn't like the car didn't belong to Dean: Dad had signed the title over to Dean on his eighteenth birthday and tossed him the keys. Dad himself had gotten a beaten-up used truck, swore it would be good enough for him to get around in until he found something he wanted more. The truck was white with a blue stripe down the side, and the only time Sam had been in it had been a bumpy ride he'd hated.
That had probably been more to do with the company than the truck itself, actually.
Pushing the car was actually a lot more difficult than Sam had anticipated it being. One, the car was heavy. Two, Bobby's driveway, if it could even be called that, was covered in small stones, which made it hard to push against. Three, the gravel made it loud, and left both Dean and Sam wincing at every little displacement of the stones.
But most importantly, the damn car was heavy.
By the time they made it the twenty something feet to the road, Sam wasn't cold anymore. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, and he felt like every deep breath was loud enough to be heard from the house. Even Dean was gasping for air, taking a moment to lean against the vehicle. “Oh baby, why you gotta hate me?” Dean moaned quietly.
From behind them, Bobby's dog began to bark. Sam froze, head whipping back towards the house. Sure enough, Bobby's dog was barking happily at seeing the both of them, having just now caught sight of the brothers. If he didn't shut up, Bobby would come out or look, or worse, their dad would, and then-
Sam suddenly felt himself being tugged, hard, backwards. He struggled to get his feet beneath him as Dean pulled him towards the front of the car. “Get in, now,” Dean said urgently.
They weren't far enough away from Bobby's. “Dean, we can't-”
“We don't have a choice,” Dean insisted. With one hand he opened the driver's side door; the other hand he used to shove Sam through to the passenger seat. “Get in!”
The dog kept barking. Any minute now, Bobby was going to turn on a light and come out looking. Sam scrambled across the seat to the opposite side of the car, heart beating a staccato rhythm and making his stomach sick.
Dean slid in fast, slammed the door, and started the car. The engine roared to life, and Sam cringed and buried his head. Like it was going to do any good.
At least Dean didn't floor it with a peal of tires. He took off slowly, steadily building speed until even Sam could tell they were going faster than any speed limit on the road would dictate. It wasn't helping with the sick feeling.
What if Bobby and Dad had both come out to see what was going on? They'd find the Impala gone and check the bedroom and find both of them gone and then come chasing out after them-
“Breathe,” Dean ordered, his voice louder now that they were away. Sam took in a deep gulping breath and realized his lungs were burning, spots dancing across his vision from the lack of air. Dean's hand fell on the back of Sam's neck and tightened around him. For some reason, it helped. The volume of his voice was a welcoming distraction, too. It meant it was just the two of them, safe in the Impala. No need for whispering. Safe as houses.
For now. Until Dad caught up with them. “Dean,” Sam whispered miserably, and found to his utter humiliation that tears were burning in his eyes. He buried his head even further into his arms.
“We'll stay clear,” Dean promised, as if able to read his mind. “I'll keep you safe. I swear to God, Sammy, he won't take us apart. I won't let him.”
There was only so much Dean could do. But Sam knew, above all, that he'd keep them both safe, Sam more safe than Dean in all likeliness. Dean would rather die than let anything happen to Sam.
It was more than Dad was willing to do. Sam bit his bottom lip in an attempt to keep himself from crying. Their dad. Sure, they had their fights, their arguments, but that was what teens did with their parents: they fought. They didn't agree on anything. But they loved each other in the end, dammit. They were supposed to. If someone had asked Sam to take a bullet for their dad yesterday, he wouldn't have hesitated. He probably still would.
How long ago had Dad let him go? How long ago would Dad have stopped taking a bullet for Sam?
Fuck it hurt. It burned way more than Sam thought it should. He remembered when he'd been his dad's 'baby boy', held and loved and smiled at. He remembered when his dad had showed him how to fire a gun, with only a little impatience. Remembered his dad tucking him in at night, watching over him.
He didn't realize he was outright gasping for air until he was being tugged again, this time over into the familiar cocoon of Dean's embrace. He fought to breathe and stop his tears from flowing, fought to be the strong individual Dean needed him to be. They'd have to both be adults to stay ahead of Dad, not one barely legal and one teenager.
All the while, Dean was hushing and whispering words of comfort, promising things that he shouldn't. That Dad wouldn't find them. That everything would be okay.
Sam finally gave up on all pretenses and buried his head in Dean's leather jacket. Here, at least, he was wanted. Here, he was loved.
He closed his eyes and let himself drift away.
He awoke to the sound of the car stopping. One would think it would be a lack of sound, but the Impala made sounds all her own when she stopped. The engine rumbled just a little louder before it shut off. Then, other noises were heard, small hissings and clankings and the rush of fluids as everything came down from the heated run of a few hundred miles. The jangling of keys as they were pulled from the ignition.
And the one sound Sam always associated with the Impala stopping: Dean's voice.
This time, it came with a small nudge, Dean's shoulder still underneath his head. “Sammy, wake up,” Dean said softly. “We gotta stop.”
The memories of the past day - had it been a day? How long had he been asleep? - didn't come crashing in all at once. They filtered in from the back of his mind, quickly becoming loud and clear. He shuddered and reluctantly opened his eyes.
The sky was a light gray through the Impala's windshield, making it impossible to tell the time. “We need to fill up the car,” Dean told him. He carefully pushed Sam up to sitting, gaze tired but still worried. “You feel like eating?”
Sam felt like sleeping for another hundred years. Food sounded disgusting. But they couldn't afford to sleep now, not with Dad probably closing in on them. This outreach, wherever they'd gone to, this had to have pushed Dean's limits. His brother looked exhausted, and it was light enough out that they were looking at breakfast time. Driving straight for hours on end when they'd been up all the day before? It was the perfect time to crash.
And their Dad probably knew it. He'd work out the distance of how far the Impala would go, how exhausted the boys had to be, and estimate where they'd stop. And he'd probably pick...wherever they'd gotten to. Stopping to fill up was dangerous as it was.
But Dean looked ready to fall asleep on his feet. “You need to sleep, Dean,” Sam voiced reluctantly.
Dean's eyes narrowed. “No I don't,” he insisted. “C'mon. There's a restaurant attached to the gas station.”
If Dean was trying to use food to wake him up, they were screwed. “Dean, you're exhausted,” Sam tried again. “And your arm's probably dead from my sleeping on it. We'll just...park the car behind a building and catch a few zz's, then keep going.”
He didn't get an answer. Instead Dean popped the door open and slid out, only turning back to grab Sam by the hand and pull him out in one easy slide. When Sam had been little, Dad had been the one to pull him out, using his arm strength to slide Sam along the seat until the last minute, then hoisting him out and into the air. Sam would giggle and shriek with laughter, Dean would insist he wasn't too big to be pulled out and he wanted to do it too, and Dad would smile.
Sam shut his eyes again. The darkness behind his lids gave him a small respite from the day outside, but nothing from the memories inside.
“Snag a table,” Dean ordered, but his voice was gentle as he gave Sam a small shove towards the restaurant. “Let me fill her up and I'll be right in behind you.”
Sam nodded, still feeling like he was in a daze, like he wasn't quite awake yet. He stumbled up the stairs to the restaurant, thankful for someone who held the door open for him. Somehow, he managed to get a table and two menus from a small teenage girl who looked just as exhausted as he was, but still able to give him a genuine smile and tell him the specials of the day. Not that Sam paid any attention, but he nodded in all the right places and let her walk away when she was done. Then he turned to stare at the menu, hoping something would jump out at him and say, “Hello, I want to be eaten today!”
He didn't realize he'd zoned out until a hand waved in his face. “Sammy?” Dean called, sounding as if he'd been calling for awhile. Sam blinked and looked up. Dean was already seated in front of him, and there were two sodas on the table.
It was then that Sam couldn't take it anymore. The silent and invisible elephant he hadn't really known existed came forward and sat on his chest, and he blurted it out before the feeling crushed the breath out of his body.
“Dean, what are we going to do?”
If Dean looked surprised to hear it, he gave no indication. His shoulders slumped downward, like he'd been expecting it but hadn't been able to say it himself. “I don't know,” he said honestly.
“We can't keep driving forever,” Sam pointed out, unable to stop himself from stating the obvious.
“I know.”
“And we don't have passports, so we can't go to Mexico.”
“I know.”
“And Dad knows hunters in Canada, so that's out, too.”
“I know, Sammy.”
“And we're gonna run out of money, and I-I want to finish high school, but Dad...Dad'll find us if we settle down somewhere and if I go to school a-and-”
“Hey!”
The whispered shout caught Sam halfway through his ramblings, and he swallowed them back and found himself choking for air. He grabbed the soda in front of him and took four huge gulps to clear his throat and settle is stomach. When he put the soda down, he could almost pretend that the tears rolling down his face were from the choking episode.
Dean leaned almost all the way across the table, napkin in hand. “I know,” he repeated, dabbing at Sam's cheeks and wiping away the tears. He bit his lip, looking far older than his teenage years. “We're screwed, Sammy. I know.”
Sam swallowed hard again, this time managing to continue breathing. More tears threatened, and Sam scrunched up his face to keep them at bay. “I'm sorry,” he gritted out. “God, I'm sorry. You don't need this right now. I need to help.”
“Hey, you're fine,” Dean said with a small, almost nervous laugh. “Better you than me.”
It wasn't an insult, and Sam knew it. If Sam fell apart, then Dean could focus on that, and not fall apart himself as a result. Sam just really hated being the one that fell apart.
“You could take a turn,” Sam grumbled, and succeeded in getting a more genuine laugh out of his brother. Still a tad hysterical, but Sam felt the same way, so he'd take it.
It still left the same huge question between them, but at least now Sam was feeling as if they could fight back instead of winding up crushed beneath the opposition. And he was really starting to hate those moments of hope: they only made the inevitable falls that much more dramatic and tear inducing. And he was fifteen, crying like the drop of a hat was thirteen or fourteen, maybe. Not fifteen.
Of course, at fifteen, he was supposedly able to fend for himself if abandoned on the side of the road.
“Pick something to eat,” Dean said, nudging the menu towards him. “And actually eat it. We'll think better if we've got food in our stomachs.”
And sleep for their body, but apparently they were only getting one of two. Sam actually put focus into reading the menu and almost had a choice made before something else caught his attention. “Dean?” he asked calmly. “How are we gonna pay for this?”
“I've got the card, don't worry,” Dean said offhandedly, and Sam could almost feel the moment his brother froze with realization. If he hadn't felt it, the groaned, “Oh shit,” would've clued him in.
It was nice, actually, to sit and think about this as a problem instead of everything else. “How long until Dad tries to follow the credit cards you've got in your pocket?”
“I just used one to pay for gas,” Dean said weakly, head leaning forward towards the table. “God I'm stupid. I didn't even think, Sammy.”
“It's not your fault,” Sam insisted. “We didn't exactly think any of this through. We just ran.” And it wasn't getting them anywhere except scared, tired, and stressed out to the point of tears. No, it was well past the time to regroup and really think, except neither of them had the energy to do it. And now Dad was probably already on his way. He'd have flagged the damn accounts telling him when the money was used and where.
“Might as well pay for lunch with it,” Sam told his brother, who was still looking at the table like he wanted to smack his head into it. “It's not like he doesn't know we're here and where we're headed.”
The idea hit him so fast Sam felt like he was going to fall out of his seat. “What?” Dean asked, watching him now. “You okay?”
“We have to go back,” Sam said. “Turn around and go back.”
Dean's eyes widened. “Go back? Sammy-”
“Not go forward,” Sam said urgently, and this hope thing was going to kill him one of these days. “Go back.”
It took Dean all of five seconds to catch on to what Sam was saying, and when he did, his lips curled up into a proud grin. “Not bad, Sammy,” he said. “Not bad. Dad's gonna think we kept going east when really-”
“We turned back around,” they finished together. They were going to have to out-think their dad on everything, but this plan might work. Take a slightly different highway back west, then sit and think about their next move when they could breathe. This would throw Dad off for a little bit, at least.
“I'll ask the waitress for the fastest way to the east coast,” Dean added, and Sam's own mouth tugged up into a smile. Waitresses remembered Dean; it was kind of hard for them not to. Dean knew it, Sam knew it, but most of all, Dad knew it. And Dean was banking on that fact right now.
They might make this.
Chapter 4
~Nebula