SPN Fic: To Everything A Season (Pt 5/?) (Gen, R, FutureFic)
Title: To Everything A Season (Part 5/?)
Author:
dodger_winslow
Challenge: Firsts Chart: First Memory
Genre: Gen (some het, not graphic), FutureFic
Word Count: 74,000 (total)
Pairings/Characters: John/OFC, Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC (hey, did I mention it was Future Fic?)
Rating: R (just to be safe)
Warnings: Language, sexual situations (not graphic)
Spoilers: Oh yeah. Everything S1
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while.
Timeline Note: Set seven years after the events of Devil's Trap. John, Dean and Sam all survived the crash to hunt down and destroy the Demon. For Sam, life goes on. For Dean, life stalls. For John, life has no more meaning, and he begins to self destruct.
Summary: A little piece of good advice: Never hunt a wendigo when you're drunk.
Part 5
Less than ten minutes later, John was back with his burger. Monster was somewhat of an understatement; behemoth was more accurate. "Now don’t hurt yourself, Sam," he said, grinning as he put the plate down in front of him. "No shame in walking away and letting the burger win."
Sam made a derisive sound. "Not a burger’s been made that can take me down," he said.
"Big talk," John said. Then, "You need anything - like a doggie bag or something - you just give a holler."
"Actually, I was hoping you’d join me. Chew some of that fat you offered earlier." Sam glanced around the empty café. "If you’re not too busy, that is."
"Well, it is rush hour around these parts, but we pride ourselves on our service, so anything for a customer." He slid into the booth across from Sam, adding, "Besides which, there’s a lawn mower back there," he hitched his thumb in the direction of the kitchen, "that is bound and determined to piss me off into a lawn-mower-murdering mood. And that wouldn’t be good for anybody, least of all the lawn mower."
"Well we wouldn’t want that," Sam said.
"No, we wouldn’t," John agreed. "So tell me about yourself, Sam. What kind of law do you practice?"
They talked while Sam ate. It was a surreal conversation, and Sam found himself forgetting more than once that it was his father he was talking to. He told him about Stanford, and about starting his own practice. John told him about finding his father-in-law two hours dead in the kitchen, but trying to restart his heart anyway. Sam told John about his brother, and how happy he was being a fireman like he’d always wanted. How good his brother was with Garrison. How much Garrison idolized his firefighter uncle.
He was careful not to mention Dean by name. He kept references to him vague, and nonspecific. He referred to him as "my brother" or "Garrison’s uncle."
John talked about Danny. He told Sam about calling him "Doctor Danny" just because no one else in town would, and how he started doing it out of pure cussedness but ended up making the best friend he’d ever had. He told Sam the way he talked about his brother, that was a bit the way he felt about Danny, not that he’d ever admit as much to Danny.
Sam smiled and said he understood.
John asked a lot of questions as they talked. He seemed to like the way Sam answered, nodding his agreement, for the most part, when Sam deviated from strict answers to expound on this or that life philosophy or political leaning. He laughed at the stories Sam told about Garrison and his uncle, Sam’s brother, the man who had no name.
The whole Yukon thing, in particular, seemed to amuse him. He told Sam he’d been a voracious reader as a kid, and that Jack London was one of his favorites. He’d always wanted to have a son, thinking those would be great adventures to read him at bedtime, or on rainy days; and Julie was looking to help him out with that particular dream, seeing as the child she was carrying was either a boy, or a girl with more than two thumbs.
When Sam asked questions, John didn’t really have many answers. He talked about his life for the past six years, but offered almost nothing from a timeframe before that. When Sam pushed, he demurred, saying everything before Julie was a bit of an alcohol haze.
Sam asked about remembering Jack London and being a reader as a kid, and John smiled, saying the brain was a funny creature and that it had a mean sense of humor when it came to picking what kind of things it wanted to retain. Like dead languages, for example, and what he liked to do as a kid. Those things stuck in his head fine. But what he was doing seven years ago today? He didn’t have a clue. Or if he’d ever had a cat. Or if he liked spaghetti, although he thought maybe he did, but Julie hated it, so he suspected he was never going to find out for sure.
He told Sam his brother-in-law said that was just the way things worked sometimes; but he, himself, thought it might be one of those gaps in Doctor Danny’s education he wasn’t willing to own up to, and there was probably some perfectly complicated rhyme or reason to why he remembered what he did and forgot other things that seemed far more important, he just didn’t know what it was. And neither did Danny, evidently; being a small town doctor and not all that smart in the first place.
Then John grinned, just to make sure Sam knew he was dogging on Danny out of pure cussedness, not because there was a kernel of truth to a single word he was saying.
When Sam asked, he talked a little about having an accident; and about spending more than two months in the hospital, recovering. He talked about not even remembering his own name, let alone what he’d been doing, wandering around town, gutted and bleeding and smelling like he lived in a Jack Daniels factory.
"Story I heard was that you tried to tango with a bear," Sam said, finished with his meal now, watching his father with careful eyes.
John laughed. "What’d I tell you about Julie? She knows it, you’ll know it if you talk to her for more than thirty seconds running. The woman is incapable of artifice or subterfuge. It is one of the things I like most about her. Other than the back porch, of course."
"Of course," Sam agreed.
"So yeah," John said. "Far as we could make out from the end results, I must have taken a fancy to a she bear and asked her to dance in a way she found offensive. Or maybe a puma. Or a sasquatch, even. All depends on who you hear tell the story, I guess. I, myself, favor the sasquatch version. Always thought it would be a hoot to meet up with one of those things. Unless, of course, that’s really what did me in; in which case, hoot isn’t the word I’d use so much as not being anything a sane man would want to do, asking that bitch to dance twice." He leaned into the table, lowering his voice a little like he was sharing an important secret. "Little piece of good advice, Sam," he said. "Never hunt a sasquatch when you’re drunk."
"Or a wendigo," Sam said.
"Wendigo? Can’t say I’m familiar with that one."
"A little like a sasquatch, only meaner. And uglier."
"Ah," John said. "Okay, don’t hunt one of those either. Or a bear. Or a puma. Or whatever the hell I was hunting when I earned me a gut full of sobriety and an assload of hospital bills I’d have to win the lotto to pay off if my brother-in-law wasn’t a good egg and a bit of a soft touch for a hard luck case his sister thinks is a catch, God knows why, but God bless her for having bad taste."
"Sounds like it was a hard time," Sam said.
"Yeah. Hard enough. Julie made it easier though. She pulled me through it, kicking and screaming all the way."
"That’s how you met? In the hospital?"
"No. We met here in the café. I bled all over her pretty, white blouse. Made a hell of a good first impression, but she got to know me a little better in the hospital, so that gave me an opportunity to prove I was just the kind of bad boy she was looking for."
"She seems like a great person," Sam said.
"She is. The best person I’ve ever met." Then, laughing a little self depreciatingly, John added, "Well, at least the best person I ever remember meeting. That damn memory thing can be a real kick in the pants when it comes to ‘ever’ or ‘always’ kinds of declarations. But it makes for one hell of a good catch-all excuse when you don’t want to take out the garbage, or you let one of those first-date, first-kiss, first-whatever anniversary things slip your mind."
"You love her, don’t you," Sam said.
The question that wasn’t a question surprised John. He frowned, saying, "Now that’s a hell of a thing to ask a man. Of course I love her. Don’t you love your wife?"
The question was intended to be rhetorical, but Sam rendered it anything but when he avoided his father’s eyes to study the red checkered curtains across the room. "Yeah. Sure," he said. "Meredith’s a great mother."
"Oh," John said. "Ouch."
Sam shrugged. He re-engaged his father’s gaze with an effort. "That made it sound worse than it is. She’s a good woman. And she tries. Probably harder than I do. The failings in our relationship are far more my fault than hers."
"Ouch," John said again. Then after a beat, he asked, "You want to talk about it?"
"I’d rather talk about you," Sam demurred.
"Yeah, well we’ve done that. And we’ve talked about Julie. And we’ve talked about your brother. And we’ve talked about your son. But you haven’t said much about you. Or your wife. Care to balance the scales a little?"
"Not much to talk about really," Sam allowed. "I met her while I was in pre-law. She was looking for someone with a future, and I was looking for someone who could make me feel normal."
"Normal?"
Sam shrugged again. "That was important to me in those days. I didn’t really have much of a childhood, so I think I was looking more for a life than a wife."
"Your father’s drinking?" John asked.
Sam one-cornered a sad smile. "No. My father was great when I was growing up. He and I had our issues; but he loved my brother and me, and there was never a time we didn’t know it. He started drinking later, after we were grown. He … he lost a lot, and I think it caught up to him when my brother and I starting living our own lives."
"So … tell me again why normal was what you were looking for in a wife?" John prompted, re-directing Sam back to the original question.
Sam spoke quietly, choosing his words carefully. "Meredith and I wanted the same things. A life. A family. I wanted to practice law. She was very supportive of that, and helped me do the things I’m not very good at doing."
"Such as?"
"Playing the game. She makes me look respectable. She gives me a life that allows me to do what I want with my work; and she thrives on the social niceties I don’t have the time or patience for. And she’s unfailing there for me, the perfect wife. And for our children, the perfect mother."
"How much money do you make again?" John asked.
Sam chuckled. "A lot."
"Sounds like something you could buy then, not something you’d have to marry. Except for the perfect wife and mother part, which I don’t really buy, because you don’t really seem to be selling it."
Sam winced.
"Sorry," John said quickly … too quickly. "Didn’t mean to hit a nerve."
"The hell you didn’t," Sam said.
John smiled slowly. "Okay," he agreed. "Yes I did. So … you want to answer that, or you want to tell me to mind my own business?"
"Both," Sam said.
"Well pick one and go with it."
Sam sighed. "Meredith was a safe choice for me," he said. "She wasn’t a risk I wasn’t willing to take again."
"Risk," John repeated. And then he waited.
Sam made him wait. For almost a minute, he didn’t answer. For the entire time, he was looking at his hands, wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t meet John’s eyes.
"If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand," John said finally.
"No." Sam’s voice was so quiet John had to strain to hear it. "It’s okay. I’ll tell you." He took a deep breath, then said, "There was someone else. Before Meredith. I loved her. She was everything I wanted, everything I was looking for. But she died, and it broke my heart. I don’t think I ever recovered."
"I’m sorry," John said.
Sam looked up, smiled. It wasn’t an expression he could sell, but he did a good job trying. "Long time ago."
"But it still hurts."
"Yeah. It does. Every day."
John nodded like he understood. "So that’s the risk you’re not willing to take? Feeling that again? That kind of love?"
"That kind of loss," Sam corrected. "And no. I’m not willing to risk that again. Ever. My dad was the same way. He never re-married after my mother died. He never even dated. I went ahead and got married because I wanted a family. I just married someone who didn’t have the capacity to hurt me that way if I lost her the way I lost Jess. Or any other way, for that matter. It wasn’t fair to Meredith, but that’s what I did."
"Sounds like she did okay in the bargain," John said.
Sam chuckled bitterly. "I suppose. If you don’t think she deserves to be loved for who she is rather than married for who she isn’t."
"Does she know you feel that way?"
"I hope not. I try not to let it show."
"Hard thing to hide."
"When you love someone, I think you see what you want to see. And she loves me." He hesitated, then added, almost as if he didn’t want to, "If I’d realized that when I asked her to marry me, I wouldn’t have asked."
When he didn’t elaborate, John prompted, "Sounds like there’s a story there."
Sam half shrugged. "Story. Excuse. Soap opera. Take your pick."
"Soap opera version, please," John said.
Sam smiled, shaking his head a little as he admitted, "She has a history with my brother. He tried to hide it, but I’m not as stupid as he sometimes needs to think I am."
"And that’s relevant because ...?"
Sam looked at John a long moment, then said, "You’re not one for leaving a scab lie, are you, John?"
"Not my nature," John said simply. "But if it’s yours, feel free to ignore my questions."
"Sometimes that’s the only way to heal, isn’t it?" Sam asked. "Just quit picking at the scab and let it be?"
The small smile on John’s face sank deeper into his features, spreading to his entire expression. "I’m not much of one for healing, either. Never quite got the knack of it."
Sam chuckled appreciatively, then answered, saying, "Relevant, I suppose, in him thinking she was trading up to a better life. I did, too; and I knew I could give her that life. But that wasn’t what she was doing. I found out later my brother was a mistake for her: Something she regretted because of who he is, not because she didn’t think he was good enough to be what she wanted. And truthfully? That possibility really never occurred to me. I can have a bit of a blind spot when it comes to my brother, and I guess I just didn’t really consider that maybe she didn’t want him and did want me."
"So you thought she was a gold digger?"
"Ironic, huh? Me thinking her motives suspect; her thinking mine weren’t?"
"When did you figure it out?"
"The night she told me she’d slept with my brother. Fucked him for a couple of months actually, was what she said. Which you’d have to know Meredith to understand how far out of character that is. But she put it that way so I’d know she meant it when she said it was a mistake. A really big mistake that she wished had never happened, but it did, so she needed to tell me about it before we got married so I wouldn’t find out about it later and hate her for it. She said it was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she trusted me to understand, and she wanted to start our marriage out on the right foot."
"If she gave you an out, why didn’t you take it?"
Sam arched an eyebrow. "What? I was supposed to tell her then that I didn’t love her? That I was just marrying her because I thought she didn’t love me either?"
"You don’t think she would have believed you," John surmised.
"She wouldn’t have. She would have always thought it was about Dean."
John flinched. He actually flinched. "Dean?" he repeated.
Sam didn’t realize he’d said Dean’s name until he heard it come back at him from his father’s mouth. It was the one word he’d been trying not to say, the one word he’d been avoiding for fear hearing it would trigger something in his father that couldn’t be pulled back.
"Yeah," Sam allowed cautiously, watching his father’s eyes. "Dean." Something flickered there, but it didn’t catch fire.
"Your brother," John said slowly, like he was having to work to think. "The firefighter."
"Right."
John rubbed at his eyes for a minute, then said, "But that isn’t why you married her, is it?"
This time, it was Sam who flinched.
"There was something else," John said.
"She was pregnant," Sam allowed quietly.
John nodded like it made sense now. "Family," he said. "That’s what you wanted. What you were looking for."
"I wanted it more than I wanted to be fair to her."
"Your son," John clarified, for Sam as much as for himself. "Garrison."
Sam looked away. The red checkered curtains again. They seemed to be his answer to facing his father’s eyes. "He’s everything to me. He and his sister."
"Children can do that to you. Make you change your priorities. Make you able to do things you didn’t think you’d ever be able to do."
"I don’t regret it." Sam said. He looked back to his father. "Every day I know I should, but I don’t. Meredith deserves more, but if she had it, I wouldn’t have Garrison. And the only thing I can offer in my own defense is that she wouldn’t have him either."
"I had a son once," John said. His voice was low, strained. "Before Julie. In my other life."
Sam didn’t breathe. "You remember that?" he asked finally.
"I remember losing him. Not much more than that. Just losing him."
"How?"
"In a fire, I think. I remembered it the day Sammy was born: that I had a son, that I lost him." He shook his head, clearing his throat. "Just about killed me to remember it. I still can’t think about it without getting claustrophobic to beat shit. And I’m not a claustrophobic man, as a rule."
"Maybe you shouldn’t think about it then," Sam suggested.
"I don’t. But I dream about it sometimes. I hear him begging me to save him. Not to let it kill him. But I couldn’t. I lost him. I feel like I killed him sometimes. Like it was me, not the fire."
"Have you told Julie?" Sam asked.
"She knows." John smiled slightly, clearing his throat again. "Who do you think I’m sleeping with when I dream?"
"Good point," Sam said.
"I’m just saying … I know what you mean. About them being everything. I think … I think losing my son is the reason I can’t remember my life. What you said about the woman you loved, about losing her? I think that’s what happened to me. I broke. I guess I’m still broken in a way. Probably won’t ever get unbroke."
"I’m sorry."
John shook his head. "Don’t be. I have a good life. I’m happy here, with Julie, with Sammy and little soon-to-be Danny. For a broken man, I’ve got a hell of a good thing going."
"I’m glad. You deserve it."
"No I don’t."
Sam frowned. "I’m sorry?"
"I don’t deserve it," John repeated. It was a statement of fact, not a recrimination or acknowledgement of hidden angst. He went on, saying, "I know that. Danny knows it. Julie should know it, too; although she doesn’t seem to be willing to see it. But whether I deserve it or not, I seem to have it. And I’m not going to question that. Second chances are a rare thing when you’ve fucked up life as much as I apparently fucked it up, based on the condition I was in when I showed up here. But I got one. Deserved or not, I got it, so I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep it. And to do it right this time. To not let myself screw it up."
"You might be being a little to hard on yourself," Sam said quietly.
"Or not hard enough," John countered. "That’s the thing about being a recovering alcoholic, Sam. Part of the process is owning up to who you are and how you got into your situation in the first place. I can’t do that the way I should be able to. I don’t know what made me crawl into a bottle. I don’t know why I chose drinking over living.
"But the hard truth of the matter is, I did. For whatever reason, that’s what I chose. And if my brother-in-law is any judge - which I have to say I think he is - then I should have, by all rights, died there. In the bottle, drowning right alongside whatever I was trying to kill by putting my brain cells to a good pickling.
"But I didn’t. Instead, I got myself gutted. Bear, sasquatch, puma … hell, could have been an angel of mercy, for all I know. But whatever it was, it did me a favor. It put me here, with these people. And they saved me. For no good reason except that they’re good people, they took me in and sewed me up like I was one of their own. They gave me a reason to live again."
"It was a hard way to get sober," John said. "But it worked. I made it. And I work every day at keeping it. But that doesn’t mean I deserve it. I don’t, and I know that. But I want it. And that’s what I focus on. Wanting it. And it wanting me. Because deserved or not, Julie wants me here. And so does Danny. And so does my daughter. And unless I really screw it up, so will my son."
"Danny," Sam said quietly.
John grinned. "That’s as close as I’ll ever get to telling my brother-in-law what he means to me. And trust me, every time the subject comes up, it’s all Julie’s idea, and I couldn’t be more against it. But it wasn’t her idea; it was mine. And part of the reason I love her the way I do is because she’ll take the rap for it forever, never letting Danny know what a sap I am, even though he already knows, and the only thing stopping him from riding me about it is that Julie keeps saying it was all her idea. Which he absolutely knows it wasn’t." John laughed then, shaking his head a little. "Sounds a little strange, I know; but that’s the way we are. It’s an interesting dynamic to be married to your best friend’s sister. Gives you all sorts of ammunition to use against each other that you can’t ever really use."
Sam was smiling, just listening to him. "He sounds like a good guy," he said.
"He is," John agreed. "You’d like him."
"I’m sure I would."
"If you’re planning to stick around for a while, I’ll introduce you."
"I’d like that," Sam said.
John studied him for a long moment, then said, almost like he was reluctant to do so, "You remind me of someone, Sam. I’m not sure who, but someone."
"I get a lot of that," Sam said easily. "Dean says it’s because there are a lot of geeks in the world, and we all kind of look alike."
John flinched again. It was less obvious this time, but still there.
"Dean," he said quietly. There was a dark, haunted look to his eyes. "That was my son’s name, too."
Sam tensed. "I’m sorry."
"No. Don’t be. Just … it throws me a little when you say it."
"I can call him Fred if you like."
John laughed at that. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand for a moment, then said, "No, that’s okay. Call him Dean."
"He’d like you," Sam said quietly.
"Who? Your brother?"
"Yeah. Fred."
John chuckled. "If he’s anything like you, I’d like him, too."
"He’s nothing like me," Sam said. "But he’s a good guy. Always saving somebody from something. He’s like our father in that."
"Your father still around?"
"No. The drinking killed him."
"I’m sorry to hear that."
"Long time ago," Sam said. Then quietly, he added, "But it still hurts. Every day."
"You going to be staying around town for a while, Sam?" John asked suddenly.
Sam hesitated, then said, "Hadn’t really given it much thought. Why?"
"Well, at least overnight, right? You fall asleep in a café busy as ours, and you’re not really in any shape to be driving."
"True," Sam said. "I was thinking about checking out that B&B you recommended."
"Certainly an option," John said. "But Julie and I have an extra room if you don’t mind pink walls and lots of horses. The bed’s full size, and I can vouch for the food, since Julie does all the cooking on the homefront. And the conversation will be a hell of a lot more entertaining that anything Diane will offer. She’s a bit of a stick in the mud. Sweet lady, but about three hundred years old, and acts every minute of it."
"I wouldn’t want to put you out," Sam said.
"Wouldn’t be putting us out. Sammy sleeps in our room as much as she does in hers. Wonder Julie ever got pregnant again, much as that girl likes climbing into our bed in the middle of the night."
Sam smiled slightly. "What about Julie? Shouldn’t you at least check with her before you invite a stranger into your home?"
"She’s not the boss of me," John said, grinning. Then, more seriously, he added, "And you don’t feel like a stranger. That’s the thing about small towns. We go on gut a lot around here. We didn’t, they’d’ve kicked me to the curb and left me there to bleed out when I rolled in here, looking like hell and smelling worse."
"Still," Sam said gently, "might not be a bad idea to ask her first. I’d feel more comfortable that way. Especially if you didn’t tell her you’ve already made the offer. That way she can feel free to say no if she wants to."
John lifted an eyebrow. "Are you telling me how to handle my wife, Sam?" he asked.
Sam smiled at him. "I’m a lawyer, John. I’m telling you how to keep from hiring me later to handle your wife in court."
John chuckled. "I ask her and she says yes, you in?"
"Sure. I’d enjoy getting a chance to talk to you some more."
"What about your wife? She expecting you home tonight?"
"I’m on business. She knows I won’t be home for a while."
"It’s settled then. I’ll ask Julie, she’ll say yes, and you’re with us tonight. Be prepared to do dishes though, because that’s the only reason I invited you."
"I figured there was a catch," Sam said.
"Always a catch, son," John told him. "Never let anyone tell you different."
"I’m a lawyer," Sam reminded him.
John laughed. "Good point," he said. "And one to keep in mind if I ever invite a stranger home without asking Julie’s permission first."
*
The café was filling up, and John went back to work, giving Sam his address and the keys to their house, telling him where the spare towels were, and not to filch any silverware, because it had all been counted and cataloged, even though none of it matched.
Sam stopped to talk to Julie on his way out.
"Did he ever ask you if it was okay?"
She looked at him and smiled. "He asked in that way you boys have of asking."
"My wife can call, say I’m needed at home."
Julie put her hand on his. "I’m looking forward to getting to know you," she said.
"Are you sure?" Sam asked.
"I don’t say things I don’t mean, Sam."
He smiled at her then, saying, "He’s right. He doesn’t deserve you."
"Yes he does. I need to ask you something though."
"Anything," Sam agreed.
"Do you have a brother?"
"Yes. Dean."
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. "Did he die in a fire?"
"No. He’s still alive. Our mother died in a fire. It broke my father. He never recovered."
Her hand tightened on his.
"I was six months old," Sam went on, watching her hear things she’d needed to hear for some time. "Dean was five. He used to tell me the way Dad was before the fire. I never saw it." He glanced back at John, then looked at Julie again. "I see it now."
She smiled, patted his hand and then released it. "Thank you."
Sam nodded. "You change your mind about me staying, you let me know."
"I won’t change my mind."
"I’ll see you later then."
"Yes," Julie agreed. "You will."
*
"Hey."
Dean tensed, his hand going white against the cell phone. "What did you find out?" he demanded. "Is it him? Is he dead?"
Sam didn’t answer for so long Dean thought he’d lost the connection.
"Sam?!?"
"Who told you?" Sam asked.
"None of your fucking business, since it wasn’t you. What did you find out?"
"He’s dead."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Fuck." Dean sat down hard, jarring himself to the core with the impact of his body against the seat of a wooden chair. "Fuck," he said again. He knew it was coming, but it was worse than he thought. "Fuck," he whispered.
"I’m sorry, Dean."
"You want me to come out?" he managed.
"No. I’ve taken care of everything. He’s been cremated. There wasn’t enough left to bury."
"What got him?"
"A wendigo, I think."
"You think?!?"
"I know."
Dean closed his eyes, remembering the spike of fear in his spine when he saw the only wendigo he’d ever run across, remembering the sure and certain knowledge he’d had at the time that he was totally fucked and never going to see the light of day again.
"I think he was already gone when it hit him, Dean," Sam said over the phone.
"How would you know something like that?" Dean demanded.
"I saw it when I was there. He was already gone, Dean. He never felt a thing."
"You’re lying," Dean said.
"I’m not," Sam countered.
"Fuck you, Sam. You don’t have visions of the past. You have visions of the future."
"I saw it, Dean," Sam said again. "I don’t know why, but I did."
Dean thrust to his feet. "He isn’t dead, is he?"
"Dean. Listen to me: Dad is dead."
"He isn’t," Dean insisted. "You’re lying to me. I can tell."
"I’m not lying to you," Sam said calmly.
Dean stood there in the middle of his kitchen, feet bare, his wife waiting for him upstairs, thinking there was ice cream and cold panties on the way. "You’re lying," he whispered desperately. "God, Sam. Tell me you’re lying. Please tell me you’re lying."
"I’m sorry, Dean," Sam said.
He didn’t realize he’d actually thrown the phone until it shattered into a dozen pieces against the wall. He stared at the wreckage of it, numb, dull, unable to think, barely able to breathe.
He thought he’d known. He thought he was prepared.
He was wrong.
Mary found him ten minutes later, still standing in the middle of the kitchen, still staring at the wreckage of his phone on the floor by the wall as if he expected it to tell him what Sam wouldn’t. That his father wasn’t dead, and that he wasn’t the one to blame.
*
Julie tapped quietly on the door. She heard Sam stand up inside, heard him moving like he was hiding something.
"Yeah," he said after a moment. "Come on in."
Julie opened the door. He was standing at her daughter’s window, looking out over their back yard.
"Sam?" she ventured carefully.
"Can we talk later, Julie?" he asked. His voice was barely able to hold itself together. She knew if she waited even a moment longer, he was going to break down right there where he stood.
"Sure," she said, stepping inside the room and closing the door behind her.
His entire posture collapsed in on itself. He sat down where he was, on the floor, folding up like a marionette whose strings had been cut without warning. "Fuck," he said, putting his head in his hands. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"Or we can talk now," Julie said.
The way he moved startled her, it was so feral. He was on his feet, back to a wall and body tensed before she really even saw him move. The look on his face scared her. She took a step back and ran into the closed door behind her.
As quickly as the animal in him appeared, it vanished. "Julie," he breathed, looking once again like a little boy dressed in lawyer clothing. "Holy crap, you scared the hell out of me."
"Sorry," she said a little shakily.
He looked away from her then, trying to keep the expression in his face from turning to something other than relief. "I thought you said we could talk later," he said.
"You looked like you need to talk now," she returned.
"I don’t." His voice was harsh, strained. "I don’t mean to be rude, but I really need to be alone right now."
"Were you on the phone with Dean?"
He closed his eyes, almost fell to the floor again. "Yes."
"And?" she asked.
"I told him our dad’s dead."
"He’s not dead, Sam."
"He is to Dean. He has to be to Dean."
Sam looked at her then, met her eyes. She’d never seen so much pain in a man’s eyes. Not even John’s, and she’d seen a lot of pain in John’s eyes over the years.
"I have to go," he said. "Get back home. Dean needs me. He’s falling apart."
"You can’t drive like this," Julie said.
"I have to. Dean needs me."
Before she could think of a way to answer that, a phone rang. Sam grabbed at his coat, pulled out a cell and flipped it open. "Dean?" he demanded.
Someone said something on the other end of the line.
"Is he okay?" Sam asked.
He listened, then said, "I can be there in ten hours. Wait, fuck that, I’ll charter a plane. I can be there in however long it takes to get a plane in the air and get there." He listened some more, then said, "No, I’m not lying. He’s dead. Make Dean believe he’s dead, Mary." Listening again, then "No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying he’s dead. Why does he think I’m lying?" More listening. "Well I’m not. He just doesn’t want to believe it. He’s trying not to believe it. But it’s over, Mary. It’s over."
More listening. "What the fuck does it matter where I am? I’m in Oregon. Did he tell you to ask me that? Let me talk to him." Listening. "No. Let me talk to him." Listening. "You can’t let him come out here, Mary. Do you hear me? I don’t care what it takes, do not let him come out here." Listening. "Right." More listening. "Right." Listening. "Okay. Now let me talk to him."
Julie watched Sam as he began to pace. His body was all angles and anger. He’d forgotten she was even in the room. He was so focused on his phone conversation, he’d lost track of everything else around him.
"Dean?" he demanded, his voice tight with emotion. "Don’t you come out here, man. I’m telling you. Stay there. You leave Mary right now, and you are an ass." Listening. "She can’t fly. She’s eight months pregnant." More listening. "No. I’ve got it. I don’t need you here." Listening. "No." Listening. "No." Listening. "God dammit, Dean. You dealt with him for ten fucking years. Let me do this. Let me do it alone." Listening. "Because it’s my turn. You gave him to me with the car, remember? That was your wedding present to Mary. Are you going to fuck that up now? Are you going to let him ruin it for you one more time, even after he’s dead?"
More listening. "Exactly." Listening. "Right." More listening. "No. I’ll call Meredith. You just stay there and go play sex games with Mary. Let me do this." Listening. "Because I want to do it, Dean. Because you can’t. I won’t let you. You’ve done enough. Even Dad would think you’ve done enough." Listening. "It isn’t your fault. He never felt a thing. I promise you, he never felt a thing." More listening. "Then you’d be dead, too. It was a fucking wendigo, Dean. He would’ve had to get lucky cold sober, and we both know he was dead drunk. He brought this on himself. This is what he wanted. He’s wanted it since Mom died, and now he’s got it."
Listening. "No." Listening. "No. I mean it, Dean. No." Listening. "Right." Listening. "Yes." Listening. "You promise?" Listening. "All right." Listening. "Yeah. Me, too. Let me talk to Mary for a minute."
Listening. "Is he okay?" Listening. "Just say yes or no then." More listening. "You’re not lying to me, right?" Listening. "I can be there in four or five hours. Just say yes or no." Listening. "You’re sure?" Listening. "All right. But you’ll call me if he needs me, right?" More listening. "Promise, Mary. Not if he thinks he needs me. If you think he needs me." Listening. "Right. Okay. I’ll be home as soon as I can." Listening. "Call me if he tries." More listening. "Right. Okay."
Listening. "No. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. If you worry, he’ll worry." Listening. "Yes, I’m sure. We’ve known this was coming for a long time. Dean’s the only one who thought he was still alive. And he didn’t even think it. He was just afraid of it. Afraid Dad was out here somewhere punishing him. But he wasn’t. It’s over. Done."
More listening. "Right. But that isn’t what was going on. He’s been dead all this time, Mary. Make sure Dean knows that." Listening. "Right. Maybe a couple of weeks after he left. No more than that. If you think you can get him to believe it, tell him a couple of days. Tell him Dad never even sobered up. Tell him he came out here, went hunting, drank himself into a coma, and it got him. Simple, clean, painless. He was dead before Dean even started looking." Listening. "I have no idea. But sell him on as much of that as you can." More listening. "Right. Okay. I’ll see you soon then. Call me if he needs me." Listening. "Yeah. You, too."
He flipped the phone closed then, closing his eyes as well, breathing slowly in a measured cadence like he was trying to get control of something.
"Is he okay?" Julie asked after several moments of silence.
Sam jolted again, nearly tripping over his feet as he stumbled away from the sound of her voice. "Oh, crap," he said. "I forgot you were even here."
"I’m still here," she said.
He looked at her for a moment, and she could see him running the phone conversation back through his mind. "Crap," he said again.
Julie smiled at him. "It’s okay, Sam. Trust me when I say I knew from the condition John was in when he came into the café that if he left anyone behind, they probably didn’t have much use for him any more."
Sam drew a long, slow, deep breath. "That probably made it sound worse than it was."
She lifted an eyebrow. "Really?"
He released the breath, laughing a little as he did so. "No, not really. I’m sure it made it sound much better than it actually was. My dad is very good at everything he does. And his job for about seven years was making us hate him. It’s all he did, twenty-four, seven. He succeeded with me, but he never even dented Dean."
"What was the final straw?" Julie asked.
"I don’t know for sure. Dean won’t talk about it. But they had a fight. He said something Dad didn’t like, and Dad went ballistic. It went downhill from there. That was the last time either one of us saw him." Sam hesitated for a beat, then added, "Actually, that was the last time Dean saw him. Dad and I hadn’t spoken for three years at that point. Like I said, he succeeded with me."
Julie nodded. "So I take it you’ve decided not to tell him then," she surmised.
Sam looked out the window again. "I wish I could say I made the choice for his sake, but I didn’t. I made it for Dean’s. Dean needs him to be dead. And this time, what Dean needs is going to win."
"What about what you need?" she asked.
"What I need is for Dean to be okay. He sacrificed everything for Dad. He’s finally found a life, and I can’t let him lose it because Dad shows up again."
"And you think that’s what would happen?"
"I don’t know," Sam admitted. "But I’m not willing to take the chance."
"What about you? Do you need him to be dead, too?"
"No. I need him to be alive. I want to tell him so badly I can taste it. But I can’t. I won’t."
"And you think that’s what I want, too?" Julie asked.
Sam’s eyes darkened. "I don’t know. I hope it is. He has a life here with you. He’s happy."
"Yes," she agreed. "He is. But that isn’t the full picture."
"But it’s enough, isn’t it? It’s more than he’s had for thirty years. More than he’s let himself have. More than he’s wanted to have."
"He’d tell you he doesn’t deserve it," Julie said.
"He probably doesn’t," Sam said. Then, after a second, he said, "Or maybe he does. I don’t know any more. He’s gone through hell. Maybe just getting through it and out the other side means he deserves every happiness he can find. But whether he deserves it or not, I’m glad he has it. I’m glad he has you. This." Sam gestured around the room. "It’s a chance for him to have what was stolen from him when he lost my mother. That wasn’t his fault. He did everything he could, and it killed him that he couldn’t save her. I know what that feels like. I still feel it about Jess. And I don’t want that for him. He lived for us when we were growing up. So this is a chance for him to live for himself. And yeah, he deserves that. It would be unfair of me to say he doesn’t."
"But he’ll never know he deserves it if he never knows it wasn’t Dean who died in that fire."
Sam just looked at her. "You’re going to tell him?" he asked finally.
"No. But I think you should."
"I can’t."
"Yes you can. You just have to decide to do it."
"That’s not fair. Not fair to me. Not fair to Dean."
"Life isn’t fair, Sam," Julie said quietly. "It just is. And while I empathize with your situation, it’s John I love. What he needs is what has to dictate what I will or will not do. I’m sorry if that’s not fair to you and your brother, but that’s the only way I know how to love. He has to come first for me. It’s been that way since the day I met him."
"So you are going to tell him," Sam said.
She smiled. "No. But I think you should."
*
Go To Part 6