New SPN story: Indelible 2/2
Part one is here
IV. 10, 14
Her name was Katie Shelton. She was sixteen, two years older than him, and a cheerleader. She could have any boy she wanted, but she said yes when Dean asked her out, and he still wasn't quite sure why. She told him she liked boys who weren't jocks, so maybe that was part of it, though she made Dean feel like he could do anything, even play football. Which Dad wouldn't let him do, anyway.
She liked to wear pink sweaters, and she pinned her long dark hair back with combs. Her brown eyes looked gold close up. Best of all, her parents were going to be out of town for a week.
"They're leaving me home with Chris," she whispered in Dean's ear, while they were tangled up behind the bleachers on the junior high athletic field. Dean had figured out pretty quick that bleachers were good cover for making out, and the darker it got, the better he liked them. Katie's fingernails scratched up and down on his bare stomach, under his shirt, and every time she scraped down, he shivered.
"Chris?" he said, eyes closed, completely done in by whatever the hell perfume she was wearing. God, she smelled good. Like flowers and vanilla; it made him want to lick her neck where the smell of her was sweetest. So he did, and then she shivered, too, and he smiled against her neck.
"My sister," Katie said. "But she'll be doing stuff most of the time with her friends." She paused in her scratching. "So you could come over. Tonight. If you want to."
He pulled back and met her eyes. This was new. They'd been groping each other for three weeks and she'd never shown any sign she might actually want to take off her clothes. The idea of it sent a little thrill of fear through him, which made his dick harder than he could ever remember it being. "Sure," he said, tilting his head and giving her what he hoped was a confident smile.
"Awesome," she said, and then she tilted her head the other way and let him kiss her soft pink minty lips.
On the way home, he licked the taste of her lip gloss off and thought about the best approach. No way was he going to miss his first, and maybe best, chance to get laid. But no way was Dad going to let him stay with some random girl overnight, so he'd have to lie and say he was hanging with a buddy.
The only problem was, he didn't really have any friends here. They'd only been in Parkerville two months, and Dean didn't warm up to people that fast. Well, not guys, anyway. So he'd have to lie twice, and that was a serious issue. Dad always knew when he was lying; Dean tried pretty hard to keep a straight face, but Dad knew in two seconds that it was bullshit.
It would be easier to sneak out.
He'd done a survey of the way down from the third floor apartment, out of his and Sam's bedroom window - just one of the many handy skills Dad had taught him and Sam both, to always know their exits - and he didn't think it'd be too hard to shimmy down the drainpipe. He could get it done. He always did. And he could get back up, too, without Dad ever catching on. Sneaking was still a lie, sort of, but what Dad didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
His father looked up when he came in the front door, mild curiosity on his face. "What's got you so happy?" he asked, smiling, and Dean couldn't help it; the blush was totally involuntary.
"Nothing," he said, hating the way his voice tipped up on the end of the word.
John nodded, turning his smile back down toward his journal. "I see," he said, and didn't ask any more questions as Dean fled into the bathroom.
**
In all his planning, he forgot to account for Sam. His brother was always a pest, but it seemed like he'd been getting more and more annoying the last couple of months. Ever since they got to Parkerville and Dean started high school, Sam followed him around in all his free time like he was afraid Dean might disappear, and it made him nuts. This night was no exception. Sam watched him shave, and then watched him lay his clothes out for the next day, perfectly content to do whatever Dean was doing.
The more content he was, the more aggravated Dean became.
"Don't you have homework or something?" he asked, through gritted teeth, when Sam flopped down on the shirt Dean had just picked out. Blue was Katie's favorite color, and Dean knew it looked good on him.
"Already did it." Sam sat forward on the bed and asked, "Are you going somewhere? Why'd you put out your favorite jeans?"
"I'm not going anywhere. Just to school tomorrow." He turned his back, but Sam was already on to him.
"You are going somewhere! What are you going to do? Are you and Dad hunting something? Let me go with you!"
"No," Dean hissed. He grabbed Sam's arm and gave it a little shake. "And shut up about it, before Dad hears."
Sam's eyes widened. Dean squeezed his shut, because he hadn't meant to say that.
"Dean! You know Dad doesn't let you go out on school nights!"
"Sam, I mean it. If you fuck this up for me, I will never forgive you." He let go of Sam's arm, and Sam sat there, rubbing the red marks in the shape of Dean's fingers. Sam said nothing, but climbed down from Dean's bed and onto his own, and curled up with a book, his back to Dean.
They went to bed with the usual routine - Sam crawling under the covers first, with a kiss from Dad, and Dean still sitting up at the ramshackle desk, working on homework. Dad ruffled his hair and said, "Finish up, Dean; time for bed."
"Couple more minutes, Dad." He frowned at the page, no act. "It's algebra. It's really hard."
"I can help," Sam offered, and Dean shot him a look of death. The last thing he needed was his ten-year-old brother showing him up.
"No, thanks," he said, picking up his pencil. "I'll get it."
"Get it soon, and then get to bed." Dad switched off the light and closed the door behind him.
Sam sat up and looked at him. "Dean. I can help, really." The plaintive, hopeful sound of his voice stabbed Dean in the heart like a bent nail.
With a sigh, Dean stuck his pencil in the book and closed it, then went to sit beside Sammy. "C'mere," he said, and Sam went immediately into the circle of his arm. "Listen, Sammy. I have something really important to do tonight, and I can't take you with me. It's a secret."
"Dad doesn't like secrets." Sam shifted and said, "You shouldn't, Dean. You'll get in trouble."
"I know. It's just this once. This'll be our secret, yours and mine, okay?" Dean squeezed Sam's shoulders, hopeful he was going to buy it, because Katie was waiting and he was not in the mood to baby Sam. Not now.
"Yeah, okay." Sam picked at Dean's shirt and said, "Will you tell me, when you get back?"
Dean grinned. "Maybe. Some of it."
That was good enough for Sam, who dove back under the covers. Dean stripped down, changed, and switched off the desk lamp. When Sam's breathing evened out, Dean pushed the window open and swung his legs out. The ledge was just wide enough to give him a foothold, and then he swung over, shimmying down the pole as easy as pie.
He ran all the way to Katie's, free, like floating.
**
Like her sweaters and her little heart necklace, everything in Katie's room was pink - sheets, curtains, pillows. Even the stuffed animals currently poking Dean in the back were mostly pink, but he wasn't really paying attention to them anymore, not with Katie straddling his legs and sort of writhing around, wearing nothing but her panties and her bra. Which were pink.
"Jesus," Dean gasped, trying to get a handhold somewhere, anywhere, but he kept flailing like his hands weren't connected to the ends of his arms. Katie's hands, though, were more sure. She had managed to get his shirt off when Dean was struggling to get it over his head, and she seemed to find the buttons of his fly no challenge at all. There was a song playing, some guy whining about how he had to leave soon; the line planted itself in Dean's brain and he thought, as Katie crawled up his body, that the guy must have been reading his mind.
"You like Styx?" she breathed.
One palm over each lace-clad breast, he answered, "Sure, yeah, great." Then she was kissing him, and one hand snaked down into his fly, warm and sure and oh, Christ, he wasn't going to make it, and it just wasn't fucking fair. He let go of her tits and got an arm around her waist, then flipped her over, surprising a giggle out of her. He did lick her then, and he would have sworn that she tasted like vanilla and sugar, every pink inch of her.
"Dean," she said, squirming under him when he put his lips against her tits, licking them like they were the keys to heaven. "Here, here!" He took what she was pressing into his hand, and then stopped dead, staring at her.
"You want me to, uh..." He turned the condom packet around between his fingers, unsure.
She raised her eyebrows and put one finger daintily into her mouth, dragging it between her teeth.
Dean ripped the packet open and fell over backwards trying to get his jeans off. Fortunately, Katie was more than happy to help. She yanked and tugged until she got them down. Dean kicked them off and yelped when she reached up and lowered his briefs over his dick, which bobbed free and proud, ready to dive right the hell into whatever came next. She plucked the condom from his hand, so he reached around and pulled frantically at the back of her bra, willing it to unsnap.
The material came apart under his hands, and then her breasts were right there with their small hard nipples. Dean's mouth fell open, and it was like something clicked, and he knew exactly what to do.
One more time, he tossed her onto her back, and now she grinned at him, and her fingers slid the condom right onto him. He kissed her nice and slow, hooked his fingertips into her panties and slid them down, and then he had his hand right there, and his eyes rolled right back into his head.
"Deeeeeeeeeeeean," she purred, and her legs fell open, and Dean went with it. She squirmed and grunted and got her hands on his ass, pushing until he was where he ought to be, and it was good that she knew because he was strictly on dick auto-pilot, going right where the heat and the soft wetness was. When he finally, finally slipped inside her, she threw her head back and made a mewling noise that made Dean's heart beat faster. Then there was nothing but how she felt, how awesome her skin smelled as he buried his face against her shoulder and came, one long gasping moan shaking its way out of him.
Katie wasted no time; she grabbed his hand and rubbed it between her legs, where she was silky-wet beneath him, and then she was shaking underneath him, thrashing her head back and forth. Dean tried not to crush her with his weight, but all of a sudden his muscles were like water, nothing to hold him up.
"Uh," he said, face still mashed into her skin.
"Sweet," she said, and Dean grinned.
She showed him how to tie off the condom, and he pretended that he already knew, even though he was pretty sure he was red all the way down to his toenails. Then she lay on the bed beside him, humming whatever was playing on the stereo under her breath, smiling a cute smile that made him want to go again.
So they did.
Around 2:00 AM, when Dean was sleepy and completely in love, she handed him his clothes and pouted pretty like she didn't want him to go, but he knew her sister would be home any minute. "We're dating now," she informed him, while she shimmied into a sheer white nightgown - white; his eyes could barely stand the change in spectrum - and popped the tape out of the player. "Here, take this. They're my favorite band."
He buttoned his jeans, shoved the stupid tape in his pocket, and kissed his brand new girlfriend goodbye, drunk off of coming twice in an hour and figuring out what, exactly, made a girl come. Katie shoved him out the window and he was off, with the scent of vanilla still clinging to his jacket.
**
Getting back up to the third floor was a little more complicated than he had thought it would be. The footholds were harder to find when he had to be totally quiet, but he wasn't all that worried about it. Even if he got busted, it had been totally worth it; his dick twitched just thinking about it. When he got close to the open window, he whispered, "Sammy!"
Nothing.
"Dammit," he muttered, and maneuvered himself up to the ledge. It would've been easier if Sam could have hauled him in. One tortuous inch at a time, he got a leg up, and then tumbled gracelessly into the room.
He was half-expecting to be pounced on the moment he landed, besieged with questions, but it didn't happen. He looked up at Sam's bed. Sam wasn't in it.
That got Dean to his feet.
He looked around, frowning. Something was weird. The light was on in the room, and the window was actually open all the way, wider than he'd left it. Dean's eyes narrowed. He crept out into the hallway and glanced down at the bathroom; the door was open. No Sam. His dad's bedroom door was open, too, and Dean risked a peek. Dad wasn't there.
Before he even knew he was going to do it, he had called out. "Dad? Sam?" He ran on the heels of silence, down to the kitchen and to the usual places Dad would leave a note - the table, the fridge, tacked to the back of the front door. There was nothing.
They were gone, and all Dean could think was, they left without me.
**
He dozed a little, curled up on the couch, but he was too worried to really sleep. With every creak of the building, he thought they might be home, but no one came through the door. So many things raced through his mind - Dad had gone to Bobby's and had had to take Sam because Dean wasn't there to watch him; Dad had taken Sam away to teach Dean a lesson; and so many other things, horrible things he tried not to think about. Maybe something had broken in and hurt them. There was no blood, but that didn't mean anything. They might have needed him.
Near sunrise, he went slowly back to his room to retrieve his algebra book. Whatever else happened, if he failed, Dad would kill him for sure. He looked at the open window, and then down at his notebook. There, in Sam's wobbly handwriting, was Dean's homework, neatly completed and probably all perfectly right.
Dean traced the lines of each problem with his fingertip.
The rattle of a key in the front door sent him running back to the living room, to be greeted by the awful sight of his father pushing the door open. Sam was in his arms, asleep, a heavy cast across his right arm. Dean stared at it, and then looked up at his father. "Dad? What-"
"Shut the door," was all his father said as he passed by on the way to the bedroom. Dean hurried to comply, and then followed Dad down the hallway. He stood in the doorway while Dad pulled off Sam's shoes and socks, and settled him into bed, his arm propped up on a pillow. Sam whimpered a little, but didn't wake, even when John brushed the hair out of his eyes.
Then he stood up and turned to Dean, and Dean took a step back at what he saw in his father's expression. Dad collected him with a hand on his shoulder, and they left the bedroom together, Dad's hand resting so light on Dean's shoulder he felt like he might break in two because of it.
Maybe it wouldn't hurt to try a pre-emptive strike. "Dad, I was-"
"I don't care," Dad said. His fingers tightened then, pulled Dean around to face him. "I don't give a damn where you were, and I don't give a damn how sorry you are." Dad shook him. Hard. "You disobeyed me, and you left Sammy behind. Again."
Dean's heart was pounding. He'd never seen his dad so angry, not even when he had left Sam alone in the motel room. Never. "I didn't...He couldn't come with me. You were here. I thought-"
"You thought you weren't responsible for him, now that you're grown up?" The way he said it, Dean flinched.
"No, sir! I didn't..." Dean swallowed.
"Sam trusts you, Dean." Dad's hands closed on his upper arms, tightening and tightening, until Dean thought his heart would burst. "He followed you out that window tonight, and he fell. Because he thought you might need him."
The sick feeling in Dean's stomach was so strong, he jerked away, afraid he'd throw up. "I told him to stay," he said, his voice wobbling.
"How many times, Dean?" The anger was fading now, and Dad looked so disappointed in him. "How many times will Sammy have to pay because you don't get it? Because you won't listen? How many times?"
Dean made a noise then, because his apology wouldn't come out right and it didn't matter anyway, Dad wasn't ever going to forgive him.
And then his dad wrapped his arms around Dean, startling him. His jacket scratched against Dean's face, and his father said, roughly, "I didn't know where you were."
"I'm sorry," Dean whispered.
"I don't want to hear your apology." Dad's arms tightened around him, and Dean held on for dear life until Dad abruptly let him go. "Just get ready for school. But we're not done with this. Not by a long shot."
Dean nodded. He was so tired, but it didn't matter. Dad was already headed for the kitchen to make coffee, or maybe toast. Dean wouldn't be able to eat it.
Sam was still asleep when Dean got back to the bedroom. He stood in the doorway and watched him for a minute, and then he climbed on the bed, so carefully. Sam was pale, the same color as his boring cast. Dean decided that he'd color it blue when he got home from school. Or maybe pink.
He settled down beside Sam and put his arm carefully over Sam's belly, tugging himself closer. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered to his sleeping brother.
When Dean woke in the afternoon, Dad was sleeping in Dean's bed. There was a blanket over Dean and Sam, and Sam's hand had wormed into the folds of Dean's shirt. Dean closed his eyes again and thought that his stupid algebra would keep for one more day.
Especially since it was probably perfect.
~~~
V. 11, 15
Dad stopped for gas in Michelin, Arkansas, sometime in the early morning hours. Sam was sacked out in the back, rooting in circles occasionally like a dog that couldn't find a comfortable position, but Dean was still fuzzy around the edges from too little sleep and too much adrenaline.
Dad seemed pretty awake, though. He had a two-day growth of beard, and some bruises left from where the poltergeist had dropped stuff on his head, but he looked okay. He always looked okay.
"You with me, son?" he asked, and Dean pushed aside all his aches and pains and stretched himself to alertness.
"Yes, sir."
"See if you can get us some coffee and something for breakfast. Something that isn't beef jerky," he added, smiling sideways at Dean, who grinned back.
The inside of the convenience store looked more like a souvenir shop. There were all kinds of crazy things on the back shelves: candle holders shaped like animals, cheap-ass jewelry, joke kits with fart cushions, comic books, and a lot of other stuff that Dean could have spent the whole day poking through. He boosted a comic book for Sam, then stopped to stare at a set of shot glasses that had flags from other countries on them. He had no idea what the hell they said, but he snagged those, too.
He paid for them at the counter, along with four apple Danish, two cups of coffee, and a Coke.
Dad was slipping the nozzle out of the tank when Dean passed off the coffee and one Danish to him. "Thanks," he said, setting both down on the dusty trunk. "Get the maps out of the glove compartment and find us a town within twenty miles or so."
Dean sipped his coffee and thought that over. Dad must be tired; he never stopped in the morning. He bitched too much about having to pay an extra day just to take a nap. Dean opened the car door and pitched the comic book into the back seat, aimed perfectly to smack Sam right in the face.
"What the fuck!" Sam reared up and swatted at the air, and Dean clucked at him.
"Sammy, Sammy. Language!"
Sam gave him a venomous glare, or as venomous as he could manage with his baby face and too-long hair, which Dad had been threatening to cut for at least two weeks. Dean laughed quietly and climbed into the front seat. Sam was probably just counting the days and hours until he could take Dean on; he hadn't even hit puberty yet, and he was still a stunted little squirt.
The map showed three larger towns about thirty to forty miles out, but aside from Michelin, nothing within the parameters Dad had set. Dean poked his head back out the window; Dad was checking the air in the tires. "Dad, I think we'd better find a place here. Otherwise we might as well drive all day."
"Good enough." Dad straightened up and popped his back. "Your brother awake?"
"I'm awake," Sam called from the back seat, causing Dean to snicker again. Sam thwapped him in the back of the head with the comic, which Dean supposed was his way of saying thanks and fuck you all rolled into one.
"It's Dad's birthday and we don't--" Sammy started, but Dean shushed him and flashed the box of shot glasses at him. Sam sat back, satisfied. Dad would like it.
They checked into a no-name motel three miles further down the road, and Dad grabbed a bunch of crap out of the trunk he didn't usually bring in. "We staying here, Dad?" Dean asked.
"School will be starting up again soon. We might as well use this as a base, stay here a while."
"Arkansas?" Dean couldn't keep the horror out of his voice.
Dad chuckled. "It won't be for long, Dean. A few months. There are some things near here I want to look into."
"But..." Dean set down the bags he was carrying on the motel room desk and picked at a burn hole on the desktop. "Dad, Arkansas!"
"You'll survive."
Sam dropped all his junk on the floor, then promptly flopped down with his Coke and Danish and switched on the TV. Dad, on the other hand, stripped off his clothes and headed for the shower.
Within an hour, the room was filled with the damp, humid smell of steam and shampoo, and the TV droned on in the quiet, because all three of them were fast asleep.
**
They had dinner at Patsy's Bar and Grill, then walked back to the room, Sam jostling Dean until Dean lost his temper and pinned his brother down on the gravel road, shoving him into the ground over and over until Sam gave up. Dad had a paper tucked under one arm and a toothpick in his hand, and they had to run to catch up with him when they were done, because he didn't stop walking.
"Dean, you and your brother clean the guns tonight," he said, as they walked through the door. Dean watched him settle on the bed, and then he went to root around in his duffel.
"Dad?" He held out the set of shot glasses. "Happy birthday. From me and Sammy."
His father took the rectangular box from him, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "You trying to tell me something, son?"
"No, sir! We just thought you might like them."
"Well, you're right. I do." He popped open the end of the box; two of the glasses slid easily out into his hand. "What do you say you help me break them in?"
Dean stared. His father never allowed him to drink - unless he was hurt and had to be sewn up, but that was different; that was a glass of watered whiskey and his father's hand over his eyes, covering them so he couldn't see the needle go in. Besides, he was only fifteen. Dad had said he wouldn't be allowed to go drink until he was sixteen, maybe seventeen. When he was old enough to go into bars alone without attracting the wrong kind of attention, Dad said.
He wondered if it was a test, if he should bring all that up, if he should say no. Beside him, Sam nudged his knee, waiting to see what he'd say. For the first time, Dean was speechless.
Dad fished a half-empty bottle of tequila out of the first-aid bag - which was where the whiskey and tequila always were, even if they didn't get used for that all the time - and set it on the table. Then he set both glasses down and poured full shots into each.
"Too bad we don't have any limes or salt," Dad said. "But you can still make a toast."
"Happy birthday!" Dean said immediately. Dad picked up his glass; Dean did the same. Dad tossed back his shot, and Dean followed suit.
The tequila burned the back of his throat, and Dean choked a little, spluttering some of it back up. It made his eyes water, but when that subsided, his stomach was pleasantly warm.
He set the glass back down on the table with a definitive click, and his father grinned. "Ready for another?"
"Yes, sir," Dean said, proud of the fact that his voice didn't break when he said it - though it was a little hoarse. He was starting to get why people sounded like they had colds when they drank too much.
Dad eyed him for a second, then poured one more. "When you drink, Dean, you need to keep your head on straight. Know when to stop, and never drink more than you can handle. You understand why?"
"Because I should never drop my guard," Dean answered firmly.
"Exactly."
Dean picked up the second shot and chugged it, and it went down more easily that time. Dad continued, "You won't ever have the luxury of just drinking to be drunk, Dean. Most of the time, you'll have to pay attention to everything around you - how many exits there are, how many people between you and the door, any threats you may see."
"But sometimes it'll be safe," Dean said, glancing at Sammy, who was watching intently. "Like now."
"Anything can happen at any time." Dad poured them each another shot, then drank his own. His hands were steady when he set the shot glass down. "You know that. What if someone comes through that door right now? What if you can't handle a weapon because you're sloppy drunk?"
"I wouldn't be," Dean said, thinking of nights his father hadn't exactly been the role model in that regard. He picked up the glass and took the third shot. The tequila tasted bitter and weird, but it wasn't bad. He thought he might get to like it, eventually. Or maybe get so drunk he couldn't actually taste it, and that would be even better.
"Good to hear." Dad poured another shot; Dean drank it.
And then one more, and one more. And maybe a couple more, over the next hour or so. It was hard to keep track.
Each time, he set the glass back down more or less in the same place it was before. His dad was watching him, maybe looking for signs Dean couldn't handle it. He could totally handle it. As long as he didn't have to stand up, or walk, or, you know. Talk. His belly was warm, and the room was a little spinny, but he compensated by pressing his toes into the floor harder. That seemed to work okay.
"You okay, Dean?"
"Hell, yeah," Dean said, wiping his mouth where a little bit of drool had mysteriously appeared. "I'm fuckin' peachy."
"Language, Dean!" Sammy snickered, his giggle possibly the most annoying thing Dean had ever heard.
"You shut up," he said to Sam, except that it came out more like, "y'shup," and when he went to reach for Sam, the chair disappeared from out from under him and he slid, undignified, to the floor.
All he could hear was Sam laughing, and it really pissed him off.
Dad bent over him, smiling. "You've got the Winchester genes, all right," his father told him, brushing a hand over his hair. Then his strong hands were picking Dean up. "Time for bed, Sam."
"But Dad, he-"
"Are you arguing with me, son?" Dad pushed Dean forward, so they were walking, and Dean lifted his head. Or tried to, anyway, even though it sort of lolled to the side.
"You punk," he said in Sam's direction, only to be greeted with more laughter. "Dad!" he said, appealing to his father to kick Sam's ass, but his father just sat him down on the bed - oh, the shaky, wobbly bed, why wouldn't it just stop moving? - and pulled off his boots and jeans.
Like water, he slid under the sheet Dad was holding up, and then blessedly found the pillow. Sweet, cool pillow.
Sam was sprawled out next to him, still giggling. Dean was about to say something really witty, but right then the taste of tequila sort of oozed into his throat, so he closed his mouth in a hurry.
It took three uncoordinated tries for him to get his foot untangled from the sheet and kick Sam in the shin, but Sam's surprised yelp of pain was worth it.
~~~
VI. 23, 26
Whenever they passed through the Midwest, the Winchester family one-stop weapons shop was a dive in downtown Minneapolis, hidden in plain sight between a dry-cleaner and a bakery. Dad always told them it was where a man could go in with a few hundred bucks and come out with an array of new guns and ammo worth twice that much. Dad had brought Sam and Dean to this place when they were still practically in diapers. There were little shops like it scattered throughout every state, and Dean had them all memorized.
Sam wanted a semi-automatic with bigger grips for his large hands, and all he had to do was mention it once before Dean was headed north.
The place was just like they remembered, tall cluttered shelves and narrow aisles, and one dusty glass counter in the back, behind which the shop's owner sat, hunched over inventory sheets. There was no paperwork in this shop, no registration, and there never would be. They knew the guy as George, but he wasn't one for small talk. Money changed hands, stock was ordered, but no conversation; business only, cash up front. He watched them casually while Sam wandered back and forth, grabbing ammo and window-shopping. Somehow Sam didn't think they guy had much of a problem with theft.
Dean went straight to the gun counter and within a minute, he was fondling a gun with practiced hands. Sam watched him for a while, but his attention was on a hardwood crossbow. He'd never seen one that was quite so well-made, and the price was right. "What do you think?" he asked, running a hand over the smooth wood.
With a shrug, Dean put a Glock 9mm down on the counter. "We've got one. You need a handgun, right?"
"Yeah. I guess you're right," Sam said. As soon as Sam put the bow down, Dean picked it up, wincing at the effort. Sam tried not to make a big deal about it, but that damned burn wasn't healing right, and Dean still wouldn't see a doctor. Ever since his encounter with those crazy backwoods hunters and their hot poker, he'd been stiff and sore. It bugged Sam, but badgering Dean would only piss him off.
"What the hell," Dean said, sliding the crossbow over to Sam. He peeled the bills off the wrinkled wad of his most recent poker winnings.
His easy change of heart gave Sam the creeps.
Back in the hotel, Sam cleaned the crossbow and lifted it a dozen times or more, getting used to its unique heft. "It's a good buy," he said, mentally counting the number of arrows they had. He could make more, if he needed them for practice, but it'd be easier to buy them. Maybe the next time they passed through Nogales, he could hit up that dealer on the edge of town.
"Yeah." Dean eased back on the bed with a beer in his right hand;, his left hand was curled over his thigh, casual, but he didn't move it more than he had to.
Sam frowned. The lack of any kind of smart-ass remark bothered him, because Dean had been a little too quiet, lately, a little too into himself. But it was never any good, trying to push. He grabbed a lukewarm beer from the six-pack and twisted off the cap. "We can make good time down to Kentucky if we start early tomorrow. Maybe get a hundred extra miles in."
Dean nodded, took a sip. The silence wasn't comfortable; it was too big, too filled with stillborn conversations.
"Oh, hey. I almost forgot." Sam stuck two fingers in his pocket, coming up with a small baggie. "Here," he said, tossing it into Dean's lap. "Don't say I never gave you anything."
"What the hell is this?" Dean held up the baggie as if it were contaminated.
"A handcuff key, dork. I know you know what they are. I've seen you use them."
"Yeah, I know what it is. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do with it?"
Sam turned an incredulous look on him. "You've got to be kidding. I can think of twice in the last six months that you've needed one, so now you've got one."
Dean tossed it back to Sam. "Keep it. Put it on your keyring. Maybe you can impress a girl with it. God knows you need the help."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Dean turned his attention back to the TV.
"Dean. This could save your life someday." Sam tossed the baggie back into Dean's lap; Dean snagged it and flung it at him. Sam batted it away in mid-air.
"Dude, a handcuff key is not going to save my life, believe me."
"Could."
"Won't."
"Why are you being so stubborn about this?"
"Because you're being a whiny bitch?" Dean turned his head and caught his first look at Sam's expression. He sighed. "Think about it, Sam. I can't get to a handcuff key when I really need one. They're hard to carry. Paper clips are easier. Cops love them. They leave them around everywhere."
"Get a nipple ring and hang it there for all I care; you need to carry this."
Dean smirked at him. "Kinky."
Sam kicked Dean's bed hard enough to jar Dean sideways, sloshing his beer out of the bottle. "What the hell, Dean? I can't believe you're refusing to take a practical survival tool."
Dean leaned back on the pillows, indifferent to Sam in every way except for the edge to his voice. "Yeah? Well, I can't believe you're trying to make this into such a big deal."
Back to the silence, and this time, Sam didn't try to break it. He peeled open the zip-top and dumped the key out into his hand. It would be so easy for Dean to do this simple thing, take charge of something that would make his life easier. Sam had always known that part of the thrill for Dean was the rush of not knowing, the unpredictability of being able to get out of tight spots. He got that; he was a Winchester, too, and maybe it was in the blood, but that didn't mean he had to stop trying.
He didn't want to have to wonder, anymore, if Dean was going to come out in one piece. If there was something else he could have done.
"You don't give a shit about yourself, do you?" he said softly, still looking down at the key.
Dean chugged his beer, then dropped his empty bottle in the trashcan with a huge, startling clatter. "What was that?" he asked, tapping his ear. "My super-human hearing didn't catch that."
Sam enunciated every word, precise, clear. "Is everything an acceptable risk to you? Why isn't it enough that I ask you to give a fuck about yourself?"
Oh, that did it. Dean turned his head slowly toward Sam, his eyes glittering cold and green. "Bullshit, Sam. I have a finely honed sense of self-preservation, thanks for giving a shit. Now fuck off. Drop it, okay?" He climbed off the bed; Sam intercepted him.
The shove came so fast, Sam didn't even have time to block it; he ended up face down on the bed, one knee on the ground, and Dean passed right on by. All sense deserted Sam in a white-hot flash of anger, and he swept Dean's ankle, knocking him off balance. He fell sideways into his bed, bouncing off it with a gasp, and remorse shot through Sam.
"Dammit, Dean," he said, pulling his brother upright, but Dean's injured arm shot out and he caught Sam on the side of the head with a not-quite-a-punch - hard enough to pull a gasp from Sam, but not nearly enough to make him let go. For anyone else, it might have been a good effort, but not Dean. "That's so weak, man," Sam said, gentling his hands. "Pathetic." He hauled Dean up and dropped him there on the bed.
Dean smacked his hand away. And then he said it, each word like a bullet: "Why don't you just go back to college?" One hand over his shoulder, the other bracing him, Dean glared up at him, then looked away. "I don't need a goddamned babysitter."
Sam stared at him for a second, almost able to hear the audible clicking in his own head as he finally got it. The way Dean pushed him away, denied being worried, bitched at him for what was out of his control.
He sat down slowly on the bed beside Dean. "No, you don't. But you think I do, don't you?"
Dean didn't answer, and he didn't look at him; he just grunted, and flexed his shoulder carefully. Sam had a flash of Dean's face when he bent down to look inside Sam's cage, the way he'd exhaled his relief, and he knew. The amount of worry that was enough to make Dean want him gone, safely back at college, was so deep Sam couldn't even fathom it.
Sam took a deep breath and looked at his hands, trying to recover some patience, get grounded again. "Dean, it was a fluke, okay? I got taken because I wasn't expecting it. I won't make that mistake again."
"Shouldn't have made it this time," Dean said. "Dude, they weren't even supernatural things. They were garden-variety nutcases."
Which was true, but it stung anyway. Along with the things Dean implied but didn't say: out of practice, not paying attention, never drop your guard. They resonated through Sam as clearly as if they'd been spoken. He'd said them to himself, argued the case with himself at night when the nightmares kept him from switching off his brain - wondering if the years away had softened him, made the life more dangerous for him, now. And for Dean, who had to come crashing in after him. Who would always come after him, because he always put Sam first.
Sam nodded. "Yeah, I know. And I know you were worried."
"Whatever," Dean said, but his eyes flicked toward Sam, and then he shook his head. "We covered that already."
"Whatever," Sam said, mimicking his tone perfectly. He'd had years of practice to get it right. "I'm sorry, okay?"
Dean shrugged.
"We're in this together," Sam said. Dean looked up at him then, eyes narrowed, as if he were looking for the cracks in Sam's resolve. All the conditions had already been made clear, all the paths laid out.
Until we find Dad.
The funny thing was, Sam was finding it harder every day to see that path back to normal. Not that Dean needed to know. At least, not until Sam found the road, and was ten steps down it.
Sam cleared his throat. "You're lucky they didn't shoot you right there by the cop car while you were handcuffed to the door, so will you please take the goddamned cuff key?"
Dean glanced over at him. "Will it get you off my back?"
"Maybe."
Dean snatched the key from his fingers and shoved it in his shirt pocket. "Better?"
"Not really." Sam tilted his head back and smiled at the ceiling. "I'd be better if I had a cold beer."
"Ice machine, Sammy. Try one out sometime."
"I bought the beer. The least you could do is take your pathetic ass down to the ice machine."
"Jesus, you're a needy bitch." Dean knocked his shoulder into Sam, gasping at the impact, and coughed when Sam jostled back, not gently.
Better.
--
Prologue
They hit the road after a week in the motel, because Dean's tolerance for staying still had been reached, and Sam was only too glad to get the hell out of there. Dean wasn't wheezing anymore, and his color was good - not blue anymore. Mostly, he was an off-white, like he'd been out of the sun too long. Sam could live with moving on, and so he didn't argue, even though he refused to let Dean drive.
Dean grumbled about the way Sam had arranged the stuff in the trunk. "I can't find my eight-inch knife," he said, as he rifled through the neatly stacked weapons and containers.
"I cut a slot for it in the foam," Sam said, pointing up.
Dean glanced at it, then went back to his restless examination of Sam's work. Every bag and container was labeled, every box of ammo stacked by caliber. Dean pulled a small clear baggie of incense out and squinted at the label, then pointed at it and asked, "Does this say, 'Sammy's writing is freaking illegible'?"
Sam smiled indulgently and dropped his pack in the neat hole reserved for it on the left side of the trunk. The neatness wouldn't last; it never did. Neither of them were organized enough to preserve the pristine order of things. Too busy, too distracted, too focused on important things, like making sure Dean could breathe. "I made a list of stuff I thought we had, but that we actually need."
"Well, aren't you the boy scout," Dean said. He grabbed the list, stuffed it in his shirt pocket, and closed the trunk. "Remind me never to let you touch anything in the trunk again."
Sam smiled again, but this time he turned his face away so Dean couldn't see.
Twenty miles out, Sam slouched down in the seat, getting comfortable for the long haul, and eased off the gas. Dean wouldn't concede to needing a blanket, but he was using Sam's jacket for a pillow, so that was something at least. Sam squashed the words are you warm enough? before they made it out of his mouth, but it was a close call; he covered by making a noise somewhere between a cough and a hum.
"Hairball?" Dean asked, a gleam in his eye. "'Cause with all that hair, Sammy, it's not a big shock to me."
Sam yawned and ignored him.
Dean leaned forward slowly and began fiddling with the radio. Eventually he settled on some screeching hair metal band Sam couldn't place, but it didn't matter at all. Eighty miles of that, and Dean nodded off for a brief nap, his mouth falling open when the light snores started drifting through the car.
They stopped for coffee at a tiny gas station just back of the road, and Dean didn't wake up. Another hundred miles, and Sam decided to call it a day; his coffee was gone, and that pale sheen was back on Dean's face. Sam started planning how he could check them into a motel without Dean bitching about the fact they'd barely gone two hundred miles. He had a thousand excuses he could use, but Dean would see through them all. Not that it mattered.
It was getting dark when Sam shook Dean awake and pointed at the door of their room. Dean scrubbed the sleepy, surprised look from his face with one hand and tilted his head for maximum effect when he glared at Sam, but Sam was already out of the car, away from any potential argument.
Shower, sodas, sandwiches from the coffee shop just about to close in the lobby, and they ate in silence, no TV, no radio. Sam let Dean eat in peace. It was the least he could do.
"You want to shower first?" he asked, when the sandwiches were done and the silence got a little too thick.
Dean waved him on and picked up the remote.
Sam reached into his pocket, pulled out the handcuff key, and tossed it to Dean. He didn't look at his brother, didn't want to know what expression was on his face, whether it was anger or hurt or nothing at all. He half expected to come out of the shower and find Dean gone, or learn that the box had been permanently disposed of. Dean never could stand anyone knowing the things about him he wanted most to hide.
Sam knew the cost of hiding the things that mattered, the things that were important. Dean hadn't been paying attention.
The blue light from the TV was the only brightness in the room when Sam emerged from the bathroom, towel over his head. Dean was in bed, asleep; back toward Sam, facing the door. Sam sighed. Point taken. But he had to try.
He slipped on a pair of sweats and sat down on the bed, passing his hand over the nightstand in search of the remote. He bumped into Dean's keys. Dull blue light shone from the ring, from the car key, and the slender silver cuff key beside it.
On Sam's side of the table, a small silver object he recognized instantly: one bullet, crushed by impact into Dean's body, handed back to him by the doctor upon request, discolored by Dean's blood. Sam hadn't understood it then - why he wanted it, why he'd keep it. Why it mattered.
Maybe Dean wasn't the only one who hadn't been paying attention.
When he switched the TV off, Dean shifted in the bed, not asleep. He was quiet, still, the way he was sometimes when he was listening for distant sounds, for signs of which path to follow.
Sam climbed into his own bed and listened to Dean breathing, paying him back in kind.
end
December, 2006
