Fanfic: (These Walls That They Put Up To Hold Us Back) Will Fall Down, Sam/Dean
Title: (These Walls That They Put Up To Hold Us Back) Will Fall Down
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean. Other minor, slightly spoilerific canon characters.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,918
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any related characters. Title and cut text from Dean Winchester Taylor Swift
Summary: 5.22 Coda. The aftermath.
Spoilers: SO MANY SPOILERS FOR 5.22. SERIOUSLY.
Warnings: Angst with some possible angst-related triggers. Some minor incestuous love of the Winchester variety.
Beta: riveryklown
Notes: When I can't sleep, I fix stuff. <3
The first few weeks are the easiest. Lisa understands that something happened and that he can’t talk about it, so she doesn’t pry and he can even tell that Ben is making an effort. He appreciates it, but it almost feels unnecessary. They don’t know him, they don’t know when he’s just pretending to be okay.
Sam always knew.
It was almost a joke when he would put up the façade because Sam always fucking knew. Sam would know and he would look at him and ask him to stop pretending with his eyes, but Dean would just look away. Part of protecting Sam was telling him that everything was okay and if that was a boldface lie, so be it. It was their own dance: Sam knew, Dean kept hiding it, and they were both on the same page, one way or another.
Part of him misses the hiding. The bigger part is exhausted just trying to get through the day.
So he’s fine for the first few weeks, or as fine as he can be with his brothers in hell or lock up or who the fuck even knows. He tries to ignore it and except for the times when Lisa wakes him up from the screaming nightmares, they don’t talk about it. It’s a set up that works for him. He’s okay with this.
The Impala had been sitting at the far end of the driveway since he’d pulled it in that night. Dean’s not sure why he wants to unpack it, maybe closure or some shit like that, but after he finally finds his keys-on a hook in the kitchen with the rest of the keys, apparently people in real life have those too-he starts pulling the duffels out of the back. Lisa had been saying that she really didn’t like guns in the house with Ben, it’s just not the kind of lifestyle she wants from him, and Dean can respect that to a point. He wonders a lot how his mom would have raised them. But that hurts almost as much as Sam and it’s another thing he just Doesn’t Think About.
Ben’s at Little League or whatever he does and Lisa’s grocery shopping so he drops everything in the kitchen to unload. He thinks that he should feel guilty for not lining the doors with salt, for not putting down a devil’s trap, for not doing shit to protect them. Guilt is another one of those things he’s avoided so much that it almost doesn’t mean anything anymore. He tells himself it would just freak Lisa out anyway, and that he’ll just store the guns under the bed and she won’t even ask. A lump rises in his throat as he looks them over and he jams them back in the bag and zips it shut. He should respect her wishes.
If he’s going to live as a normal man, he’s going to die as a normal man, even if something attacks him and kills him in his sleep.
He thinks he’d be pretty okay with that.
There’s another bag at his feet and Dean doesn’t remember what it is for a second. Then it hits him: Sam’s bag. Sam’s bag that he should never have to see again, that he grabbed on instinct alone. Every part of him knows that he should just take all the bags back and lock them in the trunk forever, but the self-hating part he hasn’t been able to ignore enough makes him put the bag on the table, unzip, look inside.
It smells like Sam. There are clothes in it, half of them needing to be washed because they hadn’t really found time to do laundry. Some CDs, an extra pair of shoes. Dean knows what Sam keeps in his bag, has borrowed socks and boxers and undershirts more times than he can count, but he keeps looking as if he’ll find a secret key to Sam stashed in all his stuff.
His fingers slide against warm metal, something too smooth to be a zipper. Even before he pulls it out, he knows it’s important, heart lodged up in his throat. The amulet lays in his palm, staring back at him and if Dean were in any place to think, he’d realize that of course Sam had it. If he’d ever given it any thought at all, he would know that Sam would have it because it’s Sam.
The necklace is warm in his hands and the heat doesn’t let up as he puts it back around his neck, hanging next to his heart. He’s hyperventilating, holding on to the table and struggling to breathe, as if getting kicked in the chest repeatedly. Dean knows it’s killing him, but he also knows he’ll die if he tries to take it off.
He’ll never remember how he gets to the bar because the Impala never leaves the driveway, but he can vaguely recall ordering shots two at a time. Instead of pouring one out for Sam, he downs them both, over and over, showing his little brother how a real man drinks. Sam’s not there to watch, and has been known to drink him under the table more than once, but he can’t stop. At this point, he’s not sure if he’s trying to prove that he’s okay or that he’s not.
There are flashes of the red and blue lights in his head as the police drop him off before he passes out.
When he first met Ben, he thought that he was the coolest kid ever. Ben reminded Dean of himself, a little miniature version who actually got a party and cake on his birthday and that was pretty damn awesome. Ben’s growing up and he doesn’t seem as cool anymore. If Sam were there, he’d try some kind of Freudian psychoanalyzing, say that his self-loathing has reached quite a peak. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just roll his eyes and tease him. But that’s what Dean would hear.
He’d gotten baseball mixed up with soccer, maybe because he respected baseball a hell of a lot more, but Lisa’s the snack mom every few weeks, so they go to the games. It’s not half-bad. The other dads bring beer and Ben’s pretty good. It’s hard to concentrate on Ben when all he can think of is Sam, how they used to make excuses so Sam could go to his soccer games, how Dean used to cheer him on and Sam would smile so big that you almost couldn’t see his cheeks for his dimples.
So one beer at the game becomes two beers at the game becomes a flask hidden in his jacket and a lazy buzz that makes him feel sixteen again, lying in the sun and watching his brother be happy for a few hours in time.
It’s not that he doesn’t try with Ben. Ben’s not Sam, Ben could never be Sam, Ben’s not even in Sam’s league, but sometimes he needs someone too. And they play video games and Dean’ll pick him up from school. He doesn’t try to really talk to him or parent him because Dean’s done that enough in his lifetime and he doesn’t know how to do it with Ben. Ben doesn’t work like Sam does. Dean thought he liked kids, but now he thinks it was just Sam. Everything in the entire world that he ever liked was always just Sam.
But it’s Sunday and they go for brunch downtown and Ben wants to go to the pet store, just to look at the puppies, he just wants to look. They humor him. Lisa and Dean already talked about getting a dog from the pound for Ben’s birthday-she kisses Dean’s cheek and talks about how she has a thing for loveable strays-but listening to him beg and promise to take care of everything should be good insurance for later when they’re the ones walking the dog every morning. He’s never really been one for pets, by nature or by the fact that he knew it was useless, but he wanders around, looking at the rabbits and absently hoping there aren’t any witches nearby.
Two things happening simultaneously set him off: the clock tower in the square chimes twelve as a few of the dogs start to growl and it’s suddenly two years ago and he’s staring down a pack of hellhounds. His hands tighten on the glass and he takes deep breaths, but he’s not scared, not of the hellhounds, not really. He’s terrified that all he can see in his mind is Sam’s face, Sam’s brokenness as he tried to tell him to move on, live his life, keep fighting.
Choking back bile, he rushes outside, throwing up behind the dumpster in the alleyway. It’s almost poetic, how they asked the same things of each other, damned each other to emptiness. All the guilt comes rushing back-asking Sam to live without him, not trusting him when he should have, letting him suffer for things that Dean should have stopped ten, twenty years ago. He hates that he’s not living like Sam wants him to. Hates that he’s suffering when Sam just wanted him to be happy.
And he hates himself for asking the same thing of Sam, for asking the impossible. He wants to touch his brother, tell him that it’s okay and he gets it and they don’t have to do this anymore.
But he can’t. He can’t even say he’s sorry. He won’t get to ever again.
More than anything, Dean wants to go back to the Impala, pull the Colt out of the trunk and empty bullet after bullet into his head. Then he wants some goddamn fucking angel to bring him back to life just so he can do it again.
But he can’t. He promised Sam he wouldn’t.
Lisa manages to get him a job at a garage. By the way he looks at her, Dean figures out pretty quickly that the owner is either an ex or someone looking to become an ex, but he can’t find it in himself to be jealous or even interested. The guy takes one look at the Impala and his eyes light up. “What’s this, a ’69?”
“’67,” Dean says instantly, what he remembers as pride welling up in his chest.
“And she runs?”
“Not a flaw in her.”
He whistles lowly. “Well, if you can keep a beauty like this cherry, I gotta have you on my team. None of the guys I’ve got now know how to handle a classic like this.”
And Ben’s talking about how his friend Mark’s dad lets him test drive pulling out of the driveway and Lisa is grinning at him and all Dean can think is, damn, Sammy would be so proud.
The Impala still doesn’t leave the driveway, but Dean thinks it’s a good step when he comes outside after dinner, lies on the hood of the car and stares up at the sky. Lisa joins him after she puts Ben to bed. “What are you doing?” she says softly, letting her hand touch his, but not joining them.
“Looking up at the stars,” he says, trying not to be annoyed at her. She doesn’t know. He had never known what it was like to have to explain parts of himself to people. There was never people, there was just Sam, and there was nothing that Sam didn’t know.
She frowns, looking at him and then back at the sky. “It’s overcast. You can’t even see the stars.”
It hurts and he tells himself he can, beyond the clouds and the lights of the city. He knows there are stars up there, has counted each and every one of them. His voice comes out choked as he says, “I’m tryin’.”
Most Wednesdays he doesn’t work, which is just fine with him. Lisa considers it an odd day off, but that’s the night of Ben’s soccer practice, so she picks him up from school and takes him, and they bring home something to eat, so it gives him the place to himself for pretty much the whole day. He spends most of it in front of the television, not sure what to do with 500 HD channels, napping on and off. If he doesn’t sleep for too long, the nightmares won’t come, and he’s done a good job of training himself to wake up before that part.
Dreams are no better than nightmares. They just hurt worse when you wake up. Dean doesn’t have the sanity for either.
There’s a knock at the door that rouses him and he expects it to be one of Lisa’s friends or someone trying to tell him about the power of Jesus-and if He even existed, Dean’s pretty damn sure he’d have met Him by now, so he’s not impressed. He sure as hell doesn’t remember Jesus saving him or Sam so what the hell use is He?
He’s still rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he opens the door. His first clue is that he has to look up, but he’s still not quite awake. Sam smiles at him, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Hey.”
“Oh. Hi.” It’s possibly the lamest greeting ever of all time, but Dean just steps aside to let Sam in, closing the door behind him.
Sam’s eyes run over him quickly, and Dean realizes he’s doing the same then when Sam says, “You look… How are you? Did I wake you?”
The stupidest question to go with the lamest greeting and they both know there’s really no answer. It’s not even really a lie if he says yes: every part of his body is awake, alive in a way he can’t ever remember feeling before. Dean just wraps his arms around his brother, hugging him as tightly as possible. Sam’s fingers hold tightly onto his clothes, almost clinging and Dean closes his eyes. This is Sam. He knows it’s Sam with every fiber of his being.
When they ease out of the hug, his hands cup Sam’s face and he kisses him like it’s the only possible thing, lips against lips, firm and welcoming. Sam doesn’t hesitate to kiss him back and it’s a dry pressure that sends his heart beating double time.
Or maybe not. Maybe his heart is just starting to beat again.
Sam pulls back a little, chuckles and ducks his head familiarly. “I should have known you were gonna do that.”
“You should have.” He grins and it actually hurts his face, like those muscles are atrophied from lack of use.
“I almost didn’t come.”
“Why did you?”
Sam stares at him and Dean realizes he’s been invisible for the last however months. No one sees him but Sam. “I couldn’t not.”
He just nods. “Alright. Wait just one sec.” Running upstairs, he packs all of his stuff in the duffel they had shoved in the hall closet, then goes into the kitchen. He slips his jacket on and checks the key hook for the Impala’s set. They’re not there and he frowns until he sticks his hands in his pockets, finding the keys there. He doesn’t remember ever moving them. Maybe everything was just automatically in its place.
Sam doesn’t even fake a look of surprise when Dean comes in with his bag. “What about Lisa?”
“She won’t even miss me,” he says, and is okay with that truth. It wasn’t fair to fake it to her. Ben will get his dog, she’ll get her freeloader out of her house. He’ll have Sam. That’s really all that matters.
They climb into the car as in sync as ever and when Dean puts the key in the ignition, she starts up automatically even after sitting there for so long. Dean smoothes his hands over the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, baby, I’ll never go that long again.”
Grinning, Sam stretches out. “Talking to the car, Dean?”
“We’ve got a lot of time to make up for.” He doesn’t specify whether he’s talking about the Impala or Sam, but they both know what he means.
They beat the rush hour traffic out onto the highway and Dean thinks he’s remembering how to really breathe. The rolled down window sends gusts of wind through their hair and Dean takes it all in, letting it wash over him like baptismal water, reborn.
Sam’s hand wanders to Dean’s chest, fingers brushing over the amulet. “I wanted to give that back to you.”
“Sorry.” It’s an apology for a lot of things.
“It’s okay.” He lets the necklace drop back against his chest, but his hand lingers, fingers spreading over where Dean’s heart is beating. “It’s okay.”
Clearing his throat, Dean hopes he has some cash, wonders how quickly he can get some new credit cards. They’re going to need to clean the guns, stock up on more salt. It’s a brave new world and Dean’s not actually sure what’s happening in it. He can’t really care that much. “So, where are we going?”
Grinning, Sam shrugs. “Whatever. Doesn’t really matter.”
He knows exactly what Sam means and grins back. “Well, put on some music and let’s figure it out.”
Sam pops in a tape that neither of them listen to, and they drive as far as they can and for as long as they want. Wherever they stop is perfect. They’ll be there together.
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean. Other minor, slightly spoilerific canon characters.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,918
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any related characters. Title and cut text from Dean Winchester Taylor Swift
Summary: 5.22 Coda. The aftermath.
Spoilers: SO MANY SPOILERS FOR 5.22. SERIOUSLY.
Warnings: Angst with some possible angst-related triggers. Some minor incestuous love of the Winchester variety.
Beta: riveryklown
Notes: When I can't sleep, I fix stuff. <3
The first few weeks are the easiest. Lisa understands that something happened and that he can’t talk about it, so she doesn’t pry and he can even tell that Ben is making an effort. He appreciates it, but it almost feels unnecessary. They don’t know him, they don’t know when he’s just pretending to be okay.
Sam always knew.
It was almost a joke when he would put up the façade because Sam always fucking knew. Sam would know and he would look at him and ask him to stop pretending with his eyes, but Dean would just look away. Part of protecting Sam was telling him that everything was okay and if that was a boldface lie, so be it. It was their own dance: Sam knew, Dean kept hiding it, and they were both on the same page, one way or another.
Part of him misses the hiding. The bigger part is exhausted just trying to get through the day.
So he’s fine for the first few weeks, or as fine as he can be with his brothers in hell or lock up or who the fuck even knows. He tries to ignore it and except for the times when Lisa wakes him up from the screaming nightmares, they don’t talk about it. It’s a set up that works for him. He’s okay with this.
The Impala had been sitting at the far end of the driveway since he’d pulled it in that night. Dean’s not sure why he wants to unpack it, maybe closure or some shit like that, but after he finally finds his keys-on a hook in the kitchen with the rest of the keys, apparently people in real life have those too-he starts pulling the duffels out of the back. Lisa had been saying that she really didn’t like guns in the house with Ben, it’s just not the kind of lifestyle she wants from him, and Dean can respect that to a point. He wonders a lot how his mom would have raised them. But that hurts almost as much as Sam and it’s another thing he just Doesn’t Think About.
Ben’s at Little League or whatever he does and Lisa’s grocery shopping so he drops everything in the kitchen to unload. He thinks that he should feel guilty for not lining the doors with salt, for not putting down a devil’s trap, for not doing shit to protect them. Guilt is another one of those things he’s avoided so much that it almost doesn’t mean anything anymore. He tells himself it would just freak Lisa out anyway, and that he’ll just store the guns under the bed and she won’t even ask. A lump rises in his throat as he looks them over and he jams them back in the bag and zips it shut. He should respect her wishes.
If he’s going to live as a normal man, he’s going to die as a normal man, even if something attacks him and kills him in his sleep.
He thinks he’d be pretty okay with that.
There’s another bag at his feet and Dean doesn’t remember what it is for a second. Then it hits him: Sam’s bag. Sam’s bag that he should never have to see again, that he grabbed on instinct alone. Every part of him knows that he should just take all the bags back and lock them in the trunk forever, but the self-hating part he hasn’t been able to ignore enough makes him put the bag on the table, unzip, look inside.
It smells like Sam. There are clothes in it, half of them needing to be washed because they hadn’t really found time to do laundry. Some CDs, an extra pair of shoes. Dean knows what Sam keeps in his bag, has borrowed socks and boxers and undershirts more times than he can count, but he keeps looking as if he’ll find a secret key to Sam stashed in all his stuff.
His fingers slide against warm metal, something too smooth to be a zipper. Even before he pulls it out, he knows it’s important, heart lodged up in his throat. The amulet lays in his palm, staring back at him and if Dean were in any place to think, he’d realize that of course Sam had it. If he’d ever given it any thought at all, he would know that Sam would have it because it’s Sam.
The necklace is warm in his hands and the heat doesn’t let up as he puts it back around his neck, hanging next to his heart. He’s hyperventilating, holding on to the table and struggling to breathe, as if getting kicked in the chest repeatedly. Dean knows it’s killing him, but he also knows he’ll die if he tries to take it off.
He’ll never remember how he gets to the bar because the Impala never leaves the driveway, but he can vaguely recall ordering shots two at a time. Instead of pouring one out for Sam, he downs them both, over and over, showing his little brother how a real man drinks. Sam’s not there to watch, and has been known to drink him under the table more than once, but he can’t stop. At this point, he’s not sure if he’s trying to prove that he’s okay or that he’s not.
There are flashes of the red and blue lights in his head as the police drop him off before he passes out.
When he first met Ben, he thought that he was the coolest kid ever. Ben reminded Dean of himself, a little miniature version who actually got a party and cake on his birthday and that was pretty damn awesome. Ben’s growing up and he doesn’t seem as cool anymore. If Sam were there, he’d try some kind of Freudian psychoanalyzing, say that his self-loathing has reached quite a peak. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just roll his eyes and tease him. But that’s what Dean would hear.
He’d gotten baseball mixed up with soccer, maybe because he respected baseball a hell of a lot more, but Lisa’s the snack mom every few weeks, so they go to the games. It’s not half-bad. The other dads bring beer and Ben’s pretty good. It’s hard to concentrate on Ben when all he can think of is Sam, how they used to make excuses so Sam could go to his soccer games, how Dean used to cheer him on and Sam would smile so big that you almost couldn’t see his cheeks for his dimples.
So one beer at the game becomes two beers at the game becomes a flask hidden in his jacket and a lazy buzz that makes him feel sixteen again, lying in the sun and watching his brother be happy for a few hours in time.
It’s not that he doesn’t try with Ben. Ben’s not Sam, Ben could never be Sam, Ben’s not even in Sam’s league, but sometimes he needs someone too. And they play video games and Dean’ll pick him up from school. He doesn’t try to really talk to him or parent him because Dean’s done that enough in his lifetime and he doesn’t know how to do it with Ben. Ben doesn’t work like Sam does. Dean thought he liked kids, but now he thinks it was just Sam. Everything in the entire world that he ever liked was always just Sam.
But it’s Sunday and they go for brunch downtown and Ben wants to go to the pet store, just to look at the puppies, he just wants to look. They humor him. Lisa and Dean already talked about getting a dog from the pound for Ben’s birthday-she kisses Dean’s cheek and talks about how she has a thing for loveable strays-but listening to him beg and promise to take care of everything should be good insurance for later when they’re the ones walking the dog every morning. He’s never really been one for pets, by nature or by the fact that he knew it was useless, but he wanders around, looking at the rabbits and absently hoping there aren’t any witches nearby.
Two things happening simultaneously set him off: the clock tower in the square chimes twelve as a few of the dogs start to growl and it’s suddenly two years ago and he’s staring down a pack of hellhounds. His hands tighten on the glass and he takes deep breaths, but he’s not scared, not of the hellhounds, not really. He’s terrified that all he can see in his mind is Sam’s face, Sam’s brokenness as he tried to tell him to move on, live his life, keep fighting.
Choking back bile, he rushes outside, throwing up behind the dumpster in the alleyway. It’s almost poetic, how they asked the same things of each other, damned each other to emptiness. All the guilt comes rushing back-asking Sam to live without him, not trusting him when he should have, letting him suffer for things that Dean should have stopped ten, twenty years ago. He hates that he’s not living like Sam wants him to. Hates that he’s suffering when Sam just wanted him to be happy.
And he hates himself for asking the same thing of Sam, for asking the impossible. He wants to touch his brother, tell him that it’s okay and he gets it and they don’t have to do this anymore.
But he can’t. He can’t even say he’s sorry. He won’t get to ever again.
More than anything, Dean wants to go back to the Impala, pull the Colt out of the trunk and empty bullet after bullet into his head. Then he wants some goddamn fucking angel to bring him back to life just so he can do it again.
But he can’t. He promised Sam he wouldn’t.
Lisa manages to get him a job at a garage. By the way he looks at her, Dean figures out pretty quickly that the owner is either an ex or someone looking to become an ex, but he can’t find it in himself to be jealous or even interested. The guy takes one look at the Impala and his eyes light up. “What’s this, a ’69?”
“’67,” Dean says instantly, what he remembers as pride welling up in his chest.
“And she runs?”
“Not a flaw in her.”
He whistles lowly. “Well, if you can keep a beauty like this cherry, I gotta have you on my team. None of the guys I’ve got now know how to handle a classic like this.”
And Ben’s talking about how his friend Mark’s dad lets him test drive pulling out of the driveway and Lisa is grinning at him and all Dean can think is, damn, Sammy would be so proud.
The Impala still doesn’t leave the driveway, but Dean thinks it’s a good step when he comes outside after dinner, lies on the hood of the car and stares up at the sky. Lisa joins him after she puts Ben to bed. “What are you doing?” she says softly, letting her hand touch his, but not joining them.
“Looking up at the stars,” he says, trying not to be annoyed at her. She doesn’t know. He had never known what it was like to have to explain parts of himself to people. There was never people, there was just Sam, and there was nothing that Sam didn’t know.
She frowns, looking at him and then back at the sky. “It’s overcast. You can’t even see the stars.”
It hurts and he tells himself he can, beyond the clouds and the lights of the city. He knows there are stars up there, has counted each and every one of them. His voice comes out choked as he says, “I’m tryin’.”
Most Wednesdays he doesn’t work, which is just fine with him. Lisa considers it an odd day off, but that’s the night of Ben’s soccer practice, so she picks him up from school and takes him, and they bring home something to eat, so it gives him the place to himself for pretty much the whole day. He spends most of it in front of the television, not sure what to do with 500 HD channels, napping on and off. If he doesn’t sleep for too long, the nightmares won’t come, and he’s done a good job of training himself to wake up before that part.
Dreams are no better than nightmares. They just hurt worse when you wake up. Dean doesn’t have the sanity for either.
There’s a knock at the door that rouses him and he expects it to be one of Lisa’s friends or someone trying to tell him about the power of Jesus-and if He even existed, Dean’s pretty damn sure he’d have met Him by now, so he’s not impressed. He sure as hell doesn’t remember Jesus saving him or Sam so what the hell use is He?
He’s still rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he opens the door. His first clue is that he has to look up, but he’s still not quite awake. Sam smiles at him, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Hey.”
“Oh. Hi.” It’s possibly the lamest greeting ever of all time, but Dean just steps aside to let Sam in, closing the door behind him.
Sam’s eyes run over him quickly, and Dean realizes he’s doing the same then when Sam says, “You look… How are you? Did I wake you?”
The stupidest question to go with the lamest greeting and they both know there’s really no answer. It’s not even really a lie if he says yes: every part of his body is awake, alive in a way he can’t ever remember feeling before. Dean just wraps his arms around his brother, hugging him as tightly as possible. Sam’s fingers hold tightly onto his clothes, almost clinging and Dean closes his eyes. This is Sam. He knows it’s Sam with every fiber of his being.
When they ease out of the hug, his hands cup Sam’s face and he kisses him like it’s the only possible thing, lips against lips, firm and welcoming. Sam doesn’t hesitate to kiss him back and it’s a dry pressure that sends his heart beating double time.
Or maybe not. Maybe his heart is just starting to beat again.
Sam pulls back a little, chuckles and ducks his head familiarly. “I should have known you were gonna do that.”
“You should have.” He grins and it actually hurts his face, like those muscles are atrophied from lack of use.
“I almost didn’t come.”
“Why did you?”
Sam stares at him and Dean realizes he’s been invisible for the last however months. No one sees him but Sam. “I couldn’t not.”
He just nods. “Alright. Wait just one sec.” Running upstairs, he packs all of his stuff in the duffel they had shoved in the hall closet, then goes into the kitchen. He slips his jacket on and checks the key hook for the Impala’s set. They’re not there and he frowns until he sticks his hands in his pockets, finding the keys there. He doesn’t remember ever moving them. Maybe everything was just automatically in its place.
Sam doesn’t even fake a look of surprise when Dean comes in with his bag. “What about Lisa?”
“She won’t even miss me,” he says, and is okay with that truth. It wasn’t fair to fake it to her. Ben will get his dog, she’ll get her freeloader out of her house. He’ll have Sam. That’s really all that matters.
They climb into the car as in sync as ever and when Dean puts the key in the ignition, she starts up automatically even after sitting there for so long. Dean smoothes his hands over the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, baby, I’ll never go that long again.”
Grinning, Sam stretches out. “Talking to the car, Dean?”
“We’ve got a lot of time to make up for.” He doesn’t specify whether he’s talking about the Impala or Sam, but they both know what he means.
They beat the rush hour traffic out onto the highway and Dean thinks he’s remembering how to really breathe. The rolled down window sends gusts of wind through their hair and Dean takes it all in, letting it wash over him like baptismal water, reborn.
Sam’s hand wanders to Dean’s chest, fingers brushing over the amulet. “I wanted to give that back to you.”
“Sorry.” It’s an apology for a lot of things.
“It’s okay.” He lets the necklace drop back against his chest, but his hand lingers, fingers spreading over where Dean’s heart is beating. “It’s okay.”
Clearing his throat, Dean hopes he has some cash, wonders how quickly he can get some new credit cards. They’re going to need to clean the guns, stock up on more salt. It’s a brave new world and Dean’s not actually sure what’s happening in it. He can’t really care that much. “So, where are we going?”
Grinning, Sam shrugs. “Whatever. Doesn’t really matter.”
He knows exactly what Sam means and grins back. “Well, put on some music and let’s figure it out.”
Sam pops in a tape that neither of them listen to, and they drive as far as they can and for as long as they want. Wherever they stop is perfect. They’ll be there together.