[SPN BigBang] And God, I Know I'm One (6/6)
Bridge: Oh there is a house
Dean wakes to a sound like the whole prairie is swarming with locusts. His pillow is thin and lumpy, and the sheets smell like summer-burned grass.
“Hey! You up yet?”
He jerks upright at the pounding on his door. “I’m up, I’m up!” he shouts, not entirely sure what he’s shouting about or to whom.
The doorknob twists and a thin face framed with sheets of blonde hair pokes in. “About time. My mom says you can’t stay in bed all day.”
The details come swimming back. Dean scrubs at his eyes and swings his legs over the side of the mattress. “Tell her I’m coming.”
Jo doesn’t leave. In fact, she slips into Dean’s room and leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. He squints blearily at her. “You’re not leaving.” His voice is like something dragged over gravel.
Jo’s mouth quirks. “Buddy, this wasn’t a courtesy call. You’re helping me with the repairs on the shed, remember?”
“Am I?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Right, right.” The silence stretches as he doesn’t move. Jo sighs.
“Gosh, don’t move so quick, Dean, you might throw a shoulder out.”
“Give me a break, I haven’t-” He pauses, and glares. “I just need some coffee,” he grumbles. He runs his fingers through his hair and stifles a yawn. His mouth tastes terrible.
Jo picks herself up and opens the door wide. “All right. Come and find me when you’re ready.” He grunts, and she smirks and leaves him be.
Dean sits in the dim room, listening to the drone of insects outside. The drowsy tranquility unsettles him. The past few days are crazed with dark patches. He remembers being bundled into the Impala, and Sam not speaking all the way to Oklahoma. He burned his father, the grief threaded harsh and hot through his body, and then Sam brought them back to Nebraska.
The mattress here is all springs. Dean groans and pushes himself to his feet. A few minutes later and he’s dressed and wandering into the bar. Ellen looks up from behind the counter. “Morning, sunshine,” she says, drying a row of mismatched tumblers. “It’s two in the afternoon.”
“It’s 8 AM somewhere,” he retorts, offering an unconvincing smile. “Where’s Sam?”
Ellen rolls her shoulders. “He went out a while ago, said not to worry. Can I get you something, sweetie?”
Dean pauses, and watches Ellen. She watches him right back. “I don’t feel like I’ve properly thanked you for putting us up,” he says, dropping his eyes to the well-shined counter.
“Don’t you even start,” she says brusquely. “It’s what’s got to be done.” She turns aside. “Coffee’s been sitting a while. Can I interest you anyway?”
“I’ll drink anything,” he says, leaning against the bar but not taking a chair. “So Jo came and woke me up.”
“You did agree to help.” Ellen pours into a faded mug bearing the logo for the Museum of the Mountain Man. She smirks. “She’s not exactly Hulk Hogan, and it’s not like Ash is up for heavy lifting.”
The coffee is bitter, but he takes it black and lets the taste pierce him. “Yeah, but Sam’s the sasquatch, even if he is a lawyer.”
Something uneasy sits in Dean’s stomach, and it’s not the dregs. He pushes the mug away and thanks Ellen. “Jo’s already clearing the shed,” she says as he turns to leave.
Outside is just as hot and still as he’d suspected. Waves of insect noises rise and fall in all different directions. Dean circles the roadhouse. The past month has been unforgiving to this part of Nebraska; more days like this and it’ll be an unqualified drought. He’s not eager to stay and watch. He’s not eager to stay for anything. It’s been how many days since Jess and Sarah and the others? Why Sam was insisting they stay here was beyond him when they had a demon to find.
“I don’t believe it.” The voice carries on the deathly calm of the air. Dean stops in his tracks and presses himself behind the corner of the building. He knows that voice. “A week? Not even you can keep this up.”
“I have to,” says Sam, and Dean’s whole chest clenches. “He can’t know.”
“He’s your brother,” the female voice says. “You’re not going to be able to control this.” Sam is silent. “I know how badly you want to find that Colt, but just because hunters pass through here doesn’t mean you’ll get what you want out of them.”
“Then where?” he snaps. “I have a year.”
“I know,” she coos. “You really don’t think three heads are better than two?”
“If this is going to mean anything, I need that gun. You said you could help me find it. So I’m talking with you. What more do you want?”
“Good question,” says Dean, stepping out from behind the corner. Sam tenses up, eyes wide. Meg just turns slowly and grins.
“Why hello, Dean. So nice to see you again.”
“She’s a demon, Sam,” he growls. “That’s Meg.”
“I know,” Sam starts, holding up his palms.
“You know?”
“Ah ah ah,” she interrupts, lips still curled in that feline smile. “I wouldn’t go yelling for Ellen Harvelle yet. Why don’t we all discuss this like civilized people? After a manner of speaking, of course.”
“What are you doing here?” he snarls, moving closer.
“Dean-”
“It’s like I told you,” she says, keeping her eyes on his. “I’m here to help.”
“I don’t know what sort of help we would need from a demon.”
“Don’t you? You’ve already had it. Why stop now?” She laughs at the twinge of confusion on Dean’s face. Behind her shoulder, Sam stands with his arms at his sides, looking pained. “Come on, Sam, why don’t you tell him?”
Sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out yet. Dean’s feet are rooted in the hard baked dust. Meg stands between them, eyes gleaming with delight, and smiles.
*
When Sam Winchester was four years old, his mom died in a fire. His dad rushed out of his new brother’s room, shoved the baby into his arms, and ran back inside.
Sam held Dean so tight because he thought he might drop him. He got out the front door and waited on the front lawn, the smell of fresh-cut grass mixing with the burning house.
“Don’t worry, Dean,” he said, standing there alone with him. “I’ll get you out of this.”
[end]
[soundtrack/thanks]
Dean wakes to a sound like the whole prairie is swarming with locusts. His pillow is thin and lumpy, and the sheets smell like summer-burned grass.
“Hey! You up yet?”
He jerks upright at the pounding on his door. “I’m up, I’m up!” he shouts, not entirely sure what he’s shouting about or to whom.
The doorknob twists and a thin face framed with sheets of blonde hair pokes in. “About time. My mom says you can’t stay in bed all day.”
The details come swimming back. Dean scrubs at his eyes and swings his legs over the side of the mattress. “Tell her I’m coming.”
Jo doesn’t leave. In fact, she slips into Dean’s room and leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. He squints blearily at her. “You’re not leaving.” His voice is like something dragged over gravel.
Jo’s mouth quirks. “Buddy, this wasn’t a courtesy call. You’re helping me with the repairs on the shed, remember?”
“Am I?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Right, right.” The silence stretches as he doesn’t move. Jo sighs.
“Gosh, don’t move so quick, Dean, you might throw a shoulder out.”
“Give me a break, I haven’t-” He pauses, and glares. “I just need some coffee,” he grumbles. He runs his fingers through his hair and stifles a yawn. His mouth tastes terrible.
Jo picks herself up and opens the door wide. “All right. Come and find me when you’re ready.” He grunts, and she smirks and leaves him be.
Dean sits in the dim room, listening to the drone of insects outside. The drowsy tranquility unsettles him. The past few days are crazed with dark patches. He remembers being bundled into the Impala, and Sam not speaking all the way to Oklahoma. He burned his father, the grief threaded harsh and hot through his body, and then Sam brought them back to Nebraska.
The mattress here is all springs. Dean groans and pushes himself to his feet. A few minutes later and he’s dressed and wandering into the bar. Ellen looks up from behind the counter. “Morning, sunshine,” she says, drying a row of mismatched tumblers. “It’s two in the afternoon.”
“It’s 8 AM somewhere,” he retorts, offering an unconvincing smile. “Where’s Sam?”
Ellen rolls her shoulders. “He went out a while ago, said not to worry. Can I get you something, sweetie?”
Dean pauses, and watches Ellen. She watches him right back. “I don’t feel like I’ve properly thanked you for putting us up,” he says, dropping his eyes to the well-shined counter.
“Don’t you even start,” she says brusquely. “It’s what’s got to be done.” She turns aside. “Coffee’s been sitting a while. Can I interest you anyway?”
“I’ll drink anything,” he says, leaning against the bar but not taking a chair. “So Jo came and woke me up.”
“You did agree to help.” Ellen pours into a faded mug bearing the logo for the Museum of the Mountain Man. She smirks. “She’s not exactly Hulk Hogan, and it’s not like Ash is up for heavy lifting.”
The coffee is bitter, but he takes it black and lets the taste pierce him. “Yeah, but Sam’s the sasquatch, even if he is a lawyer.”
Something uneasy sits in Dean’s stomach, and it’s not the dregs. He pushes the mug away and thanks Ellen. “Jo’s already clearing the shed,” she says as he turns to leave.
Outside is just as hot and still as he’d suspected. Waves of insect noises rise and fall in all different directions. Dean circles the roadhouse. The past month has been unforgiving to this part of Nebraska; more days like this and it’ll be an unqualified drought. He’s not eager to stay and watch. He’s not eager to stay for anything. It’s been how many days since Jess and Sarah and the others? Why Sam was insisting they stay here was beyond him when they had a demon to find.
“I don’t believe it.” The voice carries on the deathly calm of the air. Dean stops in his tracks and presses himself behind the corner of the building. He knows that voice. “A week? Not even you can keep this up.”
“I have to,” says Sam, and Dean’s whole chest clenches. “He can’t know.”
“He’s your brother,” the female voice says. “You’re not going to be able to control this.” Sam is silent. “I know how badly you want to find that Colt, but just because hunters pass through here doesn’t mean you’ll get what you want out of them.”
“Then where?” he snaps. “I have a year.”
“I know,” she coos. “You really don’t think three heads are better than two?”
“If this is going to mean anything, I need that gun. You said you could help me find it. So I’m talking with you. What more do you want?”
“Good question,” says Dean, stepping out from behind the corner. Sam tenses up, eyes wide. Meg just turns slowly and grins.
“Why hello, Dean. So nice to see you again.”
“She’s a demon, Sam,” he growls. “That’s Meg.”
“I know,” Sam starts, holding up his palms.
“You know?”
“Ah ah ah,” she interrupts, lips still curled in that feline smile. “I wouldn’t go yelling for Ellen Harvelle yet. Why don’t we all discuss this like civilized people? After a manner of speaking, of course.”
“What are you doing here?” he snarls, moving closer.
“Dean-”
“It’s like I told you,” she says, keeping her eyes on his. “I’m here to help.”
“I don’t know what sort of help we would need from a demon.”
“Don’t you? You’ve already had it. Why stop now?” She laughs at the twinge of confusion on Dean’s face. Behind her shoulder, Sam stands with his arms at his sides, looking pained. “Come on, Sam, why don’t you tell him?”
Sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out yet. Dean’s feet are rooted in the hard baked dust. Meg stands between them, eyes gleaming with delight, and smiles.
*
When Sam Winchester was four years old, his mom died in a fire. His dad rushed out of his new brother’s room, shoved the baby into his arms, and ran back inside.
Sam held Dean so tight because he thought he might drop him. He got out the front door and waited on the front lawn, the smell of fresh-cut grass mixing with the burning house.
“Don’t worry, Dean,” he said, standing there alone with him. “I’ll get you out of this.”
[end]
[soundtrack/thanks]