Supernatural: apple in decay (1/1) PG-13
Title: Apple in Decay (1/1)
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Characters: Gen: Sam, Dean, OFC
Warnings: language
Spoilers: Generally through 5x08
Wordcount: 7,552
Summary: After Sam & Dean have a really bad day.
Note: *headdesk* So, as ariadnes_string has pointed out to me, the Impala has an automatic transmission, which just goes to show I did not research the car - mostly because I couldn't imagine John or Dean Winchester driving anything other than a manual. So consider this an AU on that point. :) [2009.11.25]
Sam floors it all the way out of town, steering into the skids with only his left hand as the Impala fishtails over loose gravel on the road. After the last few years, he knows this car, not like Dean knows her, from the inside, by ear, but he knows her well enough. He knows how she'll do on what kind of surface, the way she'll buck and corner and slide. He's done this before - too many times - bat out of hell, running, running, don't stop until it's safe again. Time to breathe later, time to blink later. Now there's only time to stay steady on the wheel, hard on the accelerator, and try not to think about what's behind.
The sky is an open wound in the rear-view mirror, pouring red. Sam refuses to think about the kids they left back there, the swath of destruction, the sirens and alarms. The bodies, oh god, ripped apart. The swarm of demons, snarling and ravenous.
The end is rushing nearer. Sam can taste it, sharp, acrid and metallic in his mouth, blood-slick and burnt. They're both exhausted from days of driving, and days of fighting, each battle a headlong heat of endurance and determination. But...beyond the sick churning in his gut, the endless dull drumbeat of my fault, my fault, there's something about it that almost feels good, too - the adrenaline-pumping familiarity of it all - the fight, and saving those kids, and racing away, alive, into falling dusk.
Almost.
One road after another, Dean works with him in tandem as they speed up and slow down, screaming around bends and through intersections, Dean's right hand splayed hard against his side of the steering wheel, throwing the gear shift while Sam steers with his left and concentrates on working the pedals. It's ugly and frantic, and the car shudders from the abuse, until they finally hit a long, straight stretch, and Sam lets out a pent-up huff of air which turns into a hiss of pain. His right hand is numb, and his shoulder's on fire, but he tries to wiggle his fingers anyway. Dean untwists himself and carefully slumps down onto the seat, his breath coming in shallow pants, eyes closed, head lolling on the seat back. Sam takes a shaky breath and drives for what feels like a long time on a red-washed ribbon of highway cutting through forest and farmland.
When he's sure they haven't been followed, Sam clears his throat.
"Dean." He glances over, dividing his attention between the road and his brother.
Dean stirs, lifting his head and bracing his feet to slide up a little. "Yeah," he returns groggily, and then he snaps to attention, his dark shape stiffening in the fading light. "We okay?" He cranes his neck to look back.
"Yeah, we're good," Sam says around a dry swallow, trying to keep the heaviness out of his voice. "Gonna pull over. Gimme a hand?"
"Yeah, okay," Dean mutters, shifting awkwardly. His left arm is held stiffly against his chest in the same way Sam's holding his right arm. Sam can't stifle the chuckle that nearly ends on a sob when his ribs remind him they were almost caved in this afternoon.
"This is so stupid," he says, shaking his head, his mouth twitching.
"Tell me about it," Dean replies, snaking his right hand over onto the gear shift between them. "Remind me again, why are you driving?"
Sam looks over at Dean's huddled figure, at the tight frown, his unfocused eyes, his expectant, listening posture. They're so good at this, Sam knows he won't need to say much. Dean knows how he drives, knows his patterns of acceleration and deceleration - Sam knows Dean will listen to his baby's engine, and he'll just know.
"You hit your head pretty damn hard," Sam reminds him dryly. Dean doesn't answer beyond a swift, soft intake of breath as he jars his left arm. That, too. Dean stays quiet. No snark, no we can't all have a head made of rocks like you, Sammy, no nothing.
"Okay," Sam says a couple minutes later. "Up ahead looks good." Dean doesn't bother to nod. Sam slows them down, clutching while Dean downshifts until they crunch to a halt in gravel and weeds alongside the empty sunset-streaked road. The engine dies, leaving them in a deep silence punctuated only by their breathing.
Sam fumbles at his door with his good hand and climbs out, makes his way to where Dean is leaned up against the Impala, booted feet planted on the uneven ground. He's pale beneath his freckles, and his forehead is creased, eyes tight with pain. Still, he gives Sam the once-over, searching out further visible injuries. Sam's doing it, too, looking for blood, and he prays that it's all on the outside, where it can be found, patched up, sewn back together. Not the fucking quiet killers that bleed inside, wrapped up in stoic silence, that stay hidden until the damage is irrevocable, irreparable, until it's fucking done.
"Come 'ere, Sammy," Dean says, gruff. "You first."
Sam braces himself like he's waiting for a right hook to the face. "Do it," he says, and Dean doesn't even count off before he torques the dislocated shoulder back into place, one-armed, with a ferocious grip. Sam shudders, unable to bite back a cry at the grinding, wrenching jerk.
Dean curses loudly when Sam returns the favor, twisting away as he grimaces and grips his left arm. "You'd think I'd be used to this by now," he grits out.
"Wait a second," Sam says, when Dean moves to sit down again. Dean pauses, propping his right shoulder against the car, staring at the long empty road behind them. Sam fumbles in his jacket for a small, narrow flashlight which he shines into Dean's eyes. He tightens his jaw at what he sees.
"Too goddamn slow," he says, hitching his shoulder and ignoring Dean's irritated scowl. "Why do you always have to get knocked down the stairs?"
"I do not always get knocked down the stairs, Sam. Why do you always get thrown out the window?"
"I do not-" Sam returns with some heat, as he catches Dean's glare, but he abruptly clips it off. "Come on," he says, a leaden sensation replacing the adrenaline buzz, "let's get out of here."
--
Of all things, Sam finds himself thinking about chocolate chip cookies, later, as they jolt along a long causeway of a dirt road at a crawl, scanning the gathering darkness through a descending fog of fatigue. The pain had just begun to dull to a more tolerable level when he turned off the asphalt. Now the jagged throbbing in his shoulder is ramping back up, and his ribs ache, as they bump over ruts and potholes further through trees and waves of rippling grass. Sam spares a wince for the Impala's suspension, and he's briefly thankful that Dean's too out-of-it to protest the car's ill-treatment. Sam hasn't seen a single house in over an hour. Ahead, a low railed bridge looms over what looks like a shallow creek, a narrow shining stretch of gleaming silver bisecting an expanse of tall grass, a marsh, maybe. He thinks he sees the glitter of distant water somewhere on the left.
The Impala rumbles over the creaking wooden planks, and for a second Sam imagines it collapsing beneath them - who knows how long anyone's driven this way? he wonders, considering the piss-poor lane they've been rolling along. Bridge could be rotted all to hell. While there isn't far to fall, Dean would never forgive him for the car.
Ahead, past the broad, grassy, wide-open space, there are more trees, and the road rises up along a low hill. He squints into the darkness just beyond their headlights, hoping he's not imagining another turnoff, a driveway, barely visible. Please let there be a house. Please let it be empty. The incline isn't enough to need to shift, so he just pushes her a little further, and yes, there it is. Something house-like, through the trees.
Just like that, and he smells those goddamned chocolate chip cookies, the kind they don't have - a powerful whiff of memory, the kind Jess used to make, the kind he always imagined Mom would have made, but he's never asked Dean if he remembers anything like that. His stomach complains, which pisses him off because hunger isn't something he can worry about right now, not when they're beat to hell, and they need more important things like safety, sleep, somewhere to catch their breath, clean up, even. Just for a little while. Just for tonight.
He shakes his head, a soft, irritated tsk escaping. Safety's an illusion, there's nothing and nowhere safe. Goddamned chocolate chip cookies. There isn't any food in the car. Just holy water and salt.
"Dean," he says, and his brother lifts his head, colt-wobbly, blinking as he looks over. "No cars." The narrow lane has widened into a clearing with a neat little cabin, and, thank everything good, no fucking cars. Maybe they're really alone.
"Awesome," Dean says in a voice too weary to even sound relieved.
--
They drag themselves from the Impala and cautiously inspect the cabin's exterior, but drifts of autumn leaves on and around the porch and the lack of any tire tracks in the drive tell their own story. Still, Dean raps his knuckles against the door and calls out, "Hello? Anyone home? Mind if we come in?"
Just then, Sam feels something against his leg, and he jumps, looking down. It's a cat, the color of dense, dark smoke, and it seems unconcerned with Sam's reaction; it delicately steps between his feet, rubbing against his ankles. Sam looks up and catches Dean's eye. The cat is now curling around Dean's ankles. Dean returns his surprise with a lifted eyebrow just glimpsed in the darkening twilight.
"Dean," Sam says, worry and disappointment thick in his throat. "It doesn't look like a stray." It really doesn't. The cat appears sleek and well-fed with an inviting velvety coat and watchful slow-blinking cat-eyes.
"No," Dean replies. "It doesn't. But-" His tone is thoughtful as he watches the cat stroking against him. "Doesn't look like anyone's here, though, does it? Looks like no one's been here for awhile. Maybe it belongs to someone else around here..."
"Yeah," Sam says doubtfully, "maybe."
"We don't have to stay long, right?" Dean's voice is winding down, rasping with exhaustion.
"Can't stay long," Sam reminds him, because they can't. Too many omens, miles to go, yadda yadda, and they still need the Colt.
"Stay here," Dean says, "I'll check around back." His gun is in his good hand, angled down as he slips off the porch into shadows. Sam waits, back against the wall beside the door, and the cat sits down in front of the door, unconcernedly washing its paw with its tongue.
Dean comes back a few minutes later. "Nothing," he says.
Breaking in is fast and easy, but hauling in the necessary gear takes a little longer. They move the car so it can't be seen from the road, nose out for an easy getaway, and they trudge back to the cabin with slowing footsteps. The cat meows somewhere out of sight.
"Maybe it's hungry," Dean says.
"I'm hungry," Sam says. He doesn't say anything else, but he knows what they're both hoping - that there's electricity and possibly a well-stocked freezer, or cupboards, and some kind of heating unit.
No such luck - on the food front, anyway. There's no electricity, either, and although there's a refrigerator in the tiny galley kitchen, it's unplugged and empty. The cupboards are bare. There's a narrow sheet-draped bedroom on the side, a tiny bathroom, a couple closets, and everything is caked in a good layer of dust. Disappointing, but not surprising.
Dean wanders off and comes back with a couple small lanterns and a jug of kerosene hanging from the fingers of his right hand.
"Found a stable back there," he says, by way of explanation, "coupla sheds. Saw a camp-stove, but I ran out of fingers." He waggles them at Sam after setting the lanterns down on the table.
"I'll get it," Sam replies mechanically, after the lamps are lit, "I - Dean, you need to sit down. Take something for your head. Your eyes didn't look so good before. 'm pretty sure you have a concussion."
"I'll be fine, Sammy,"
Feeling half asleep already, he takes a piss on the way to the stable, and by the time he gets back, there's salt along every window sill and at every doorway of the small cabin, and devil's traps are chalked on the floor. Sam carefully steps inside the cabin, setting the camp stove down just inside the entrance. Dean's already crashed out on an old, worn leather couch, his left arm up in a sling he must have tied with his teeth, and there's an iron from the fireplace on the floor where he can reach it with his good hand. Beside one of the lanterns, the table is scattered with little pills where Dean must have lost a fight with the ibuprofen bottle. Sam frowns, and scoops up four, dry-swallowing them down before he considers whether mice have been running around and shitting on the dirty table. He digs in his pack and, with some effort, ties on a makeshift sling. He doesn't even bother to think man, I'm gonna feel like shit in the morning because shit is already here, scouring through him, and there's only this. Like always, but every day a little worse. Temporary respite.
Maybe it'll make things easier, when the time comes. Nothing left to hold on to.
Sam suppresses a sigh as he looks around at the bare room, faintly glimpsed in the small overlapping circles of light thrown by the kerosene lamps. He's too tired to even bother with all the cuts and scrapes, and with Dean already asleep, wrapping his ribs will have to wait until later - there's no way he can manage that alone tonight. Longingly he thinks about the relief a cold pack would provide, but with nowhere to chill them, he and Dean'll just have to cope with their shoulders the old-fashioned way. He reaches out to the lanterns, turning them down. Light fades and he stands for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust. Listens to Dean breathe.
Goddamnit, we could really use a break right now. Just. One little break.
Sam bends down and, ignoring his aching ribs and the painful drag from his shoulder, he pulls the high-backed armchair away from the wall, shoving it close to Dean's couch. Gritting his teeth, he lowers himself carefully and gratefully, and he stretches his legs out in front of him. It's not exactly comfortable, but from experience, he knows it's a damn sight better than trying to lie flat. Making sure he can reach Dean when he needs to, Sam sets his watch for one hour, leans his head back, and closes his eyes.
--
Every hour Sam's watch wakes him up and, in turn, he wakes Dean, gets him talking for a couple minutes, resets the alarm, and dozes off.
--
Sam jerks awake into close, quiet darkness, his heart racing. He listens hard, but there's nothing to hear, and the terror from whatever woke him is already fading. He doesn't know, he doesn't remember, but he always fears it's Lucifer in his head, wearing Dean's clothes, or Jess's face and body, the Devil himself, come 'round again for another go. When he's asleep in a room near his brother, it seems particularly obscene.
He draws a long, shivery breath, and lets it out slowly, willing his heart to slow before he checks his watch. 4:50. Nearly time to wake Dean up anyway.
Sam slides his feet back and forces himself to a stand. He's lightheaded and a bit nauseous, and oh, man, he hurts. Everything hurts, all his muscles tightened up like a wet knot while he's been resting. There's no help for it, though. He feels around on the table for more pills, pressing them into his mouth, swallowing, and then his alarm goes off.
He wakes Dean with a firm hand on his boot, and Dean comes awake with the choked sounds of a drowning man, nearly flailing.
"Dean? Dean. Hey, hey, hey, it's okay."
"Sam. God. What time is it?"
"Almost five. Listen. I need some air, okay? I'm gonna take a walk. All right?"
"Yeah, okay. I'll just. I'll just..."
"Sleep some more."
"Yeah, I'll do that. Sleep." Dean's voice is less fuzzy than it had been earlier in the night. Sam decides to take that as a good sign. He grabs his pack, and without breaking the salt lines across the threshold, he slips out the front door.
--
We can't save everyone, Sam. We can't.
Dean had always warned him that they shouldn't get too close to the people they saved, that they couldn't be grief counselors. It wasn't their job to stick around and help people pick up the pieces of their lives. Sam also knew that Dean didn't always mean it. Dean had learned about distance from their father but Sam...well, he couldn't help looking at the victims and wonder how they would do it. Pick up. Go on.
We did, Dean would remind him. Right. And look how well we've done. Hell, demon blood, Ruby. Apocalypse. Betrayal. He couldn't just let Dean down, no, but he had to go and betray the whole fucking world. Sorry, everyone. Just working out some family issues, you know? Sorry I broke the world.
Those kids back there, he and Dean had just told them to run. To run and not look back, no matter what. Found the ones who could drive, hustled as many as they could into cars, and sent them packing. Go, Dean had yelled over the whipping wind and the crackle of fire, and Sam remembered one boy looking at him and asking go where? Blank. Terrified.
Something had crossed Dean's face, and Sam was sure he would have said more, something like anywhere but here, kid and maybe even I'm sorry - if he hadn't been flung violently through the air. Sam had yelled at the kids himself to just leave, as fast as they could, and that was it. Never had a chance to find out who made it. Too much was happening way too fast, and there were too many demons, more than they could handle between them, and with all the smoke and confusion, Sam'd had enough trouble just keeping Dean in sight.
Flames had licked higher, above the howls, above the blood, and the pain.
Sam doesn't know exactly what they left behind, just that at some point Dean called out to him in a terrible voice - Sam? Sam, where are you? - and told him to leave it. That's it. We're done. We're dead if we stay. He was right: they were hurt, without backup, and they were way outnumbered.
What gives me the right to walk away? What gives me the right to leave this unfinished?
Sam knows what Dean would say, that they have to finish it for good, not just for now. For always. Which means living long enough to find that final solution. To execute it. Dying now won't help anyone, and the world ain't gonna save itself. We gotta make this right. You get it, Sammy?
--
The sky grows lighter, fading from darkest starry blue overhead to something pure and clear low down above the marsh grass and trees. The moon is ghost-pale, and it's just cold enough for Sam to see his breath hanging in the air.
The cat had followed him - or led the way, Sam's not sure. It was there at his feet when he stepped onto the porch, and it stayed near him as he circled around the back of the cabin and plunged into a grove of widely spaced trees. Trees hung with apples.
Sam's bag is heavier now.
He'd traced an aimless, wandering route past the small stand of fruit trees, his footsteps cushioned by a thick layer of fallen leaves. Where the slope had begun angling downward, he could see a wide marsh spread out before him, beyond autumn trees hung with trembling orange and gold leaves. A mist hovered over vivid green stripes of marsh grass, and silver-blue, pearly water.
When he'd made to step further, the cat had tangled with his feet, and stumbling, Sam had caught himself up short, his eyes refocusing to see what hung between him and the marsh.
A massive spider web, maybe a meter wide, maybe more, stretched between two slim birch trees, entirely beaded with dew. That's where he'd stopped. And decided to sit a spell.
Now Sam hears footsteps behind him, a familiar tread in the dry leaves.
"Heya, Sammy," Dean's voice is warm and still rough with sleep.
Sam cocks his head, looking up at Dean sideways. "Hey, Dean."
The pre-dawn light's enough to note the soft lavender shadows beneath Dean's eyes, the reddened cuts, and the bloom of bruises along both cheekbones. His voice may still sound half-asleep, but his eyes are alert, scanning through the trees, assessing hidden threats, like he's listening for something distant and faint, the warning signs of an oncoming storm.
Sam decides he doesn't look too bad, considering.
"Whatcha doin'?" Dean asks. Easy, casual tone, like they hadn't barely escaped a town crawling with demons, like the apocalypse was still just a story, and the news hadn't turned into a string of escalating horror.
Sam looks down at the half-eaten apple in his left hand and the cat curled up around his feet. At the solid line of salt outlining his patch of earth among the birch trees. His mouth quirks up in a crooked smile.
"Dunno," he replies, "just felt like sitting, I guess."
Dean carefully steps around him, over the salt line arcing in front of Sam; he makes to walk further toward the marsh.
"Wait," Sam says, halting him.
"Huh?"
"Don't walk into it," Sam says. "Do you see? It's right there."
Dean pauses and looks straight ahead with a tiny frown; Sam sees his eyebrows lift as his eyes focus in on the dew-beaded spider web, a dream catcher of water droplets swaying in the light breeze. With the dawn sky beginning to glow over the misted marsh, Sam knows it's too easy to see straight through the thing hanging in front of his face.
"Whoa," Dean says, stepping back, "that's huge."
"Hey, you want one? I don't know about you, but I'm starving, and these are really good." Sam polishes an apple on his thigh and holds it out to Dean.
Dean turns back and draws nearer, reeled in by the promise of food. With his right hand on Sam's left shoulder, he sits in the thick leafbed, bumping against Sam. He accepts the apple and crunches into it hungrily.
"Look at us, man" Sam says, half-smiling, as his gaze flickers over Dean's cut up and bruised face again. Sam hasn't checked himself yet, but he's pretty sure he's working up to a good shiner, and all along his right jaw it feels hot, painful and swollen. "We're a mess."
"Heh," Dean replies around a mouthful of apple. "Where'd you find these? I really hope they're not poisoned. Then we'll really be fucked."
Sam chuckles. "I was following the cat when I found them on a tree. Can't be poisoned if they're on a tree, right? How's your head?"
"About what you'd expect. I'll live." Dean's voice deepens, carrying a note of warning. "And don't ask me how I slept. 's not like you slept any better."
"Whoa, testy," Sam smiles, throwing his left hand up in surrender.
"Yeah, well," Dean lifts his chin, "hello, concussion here."
Sam stays quiet, chucking away his apple core in a swift overhand pitch that jostles him against Dean. He yawns hugely and watches as the gray cat rises up from where it's curled around his ankles and delicately climbs into Dean's lap.
Dean looks down, and he shakes his head a little, a tiny smile of disbelief lifting the corners of his mouth.
"You gotta be kidding me."
"I dunno, man. I think it likes you."
"Whatever," Dean says dismissively, but Sam notices he doesn't dislodge the cat, either.
"How are you holding up?" Dean asks a moment later, with a sidelong glance. "That one demon," he whistles low, "she was, you know, she looked like she was having a good time bouncing you around." Dean's expression is light and teasing but Sam hears concern beneath the mockery.
Sam bites back a wince as he unbends one knee. "Ha ha," he returns, rolling his eyes. "Ribs are killing me. Otherwise, you know. Shoulder's gonna take a while."
"Yeah, I know. Mine, too," Dean mutters, "and we don't got a while."
Just like that, the air freezes in Sam's lungs.
"How-how long do you think we have," he asks carefully. "Six months? A year?"
Dean makes an unpleasant sound, and he takes his time answering. He tosses his gnawed apple core away so it falls outside the salt line. Wipes his hand on his knee before scrubbing roughly at his face. Sam can hear the rasp of two-day-old stubble before Dean clears his throat.
"I don't know, man. I definitely don't think we got anything like a year." His voice isn't altogether steady. "Look around. Bad things, Sammy, real bad and getting worse. Maybe six months. I dunno how long these bastards are gonna hold off before there's some kind of epic showdown."
"Not wearing us." Sam says darkly. Urgency floods his chest. "We gotta find Lucifer. And the Colt."
"I know, Sam. And by the way," Dean pauses, and when he continues, he sounds uncertain, hesitant, like he's been worrying at a knot for too long, as though he's afraid to say it out loud: "don't you think - don't you think it's strange that we haven't actually heard from Michael yet? Why's he letting all these other guys do his talking? Lucifer went straight to you."
"Uh, Dean, I'll die happy if I never have to speak to Lucifer again. Do you really want to talk to another archangel?"
Dean shakes his head with a mirthless chuckle. "No. No. Definitely not. But you know, I been thinking...what if - what if Michael isn't interested in this fight? Maybe that's why he hasn't shown up yet. Maybe all these other angels are, you know, maybe they're twisting his arm?"
Sam's eyes widen, and he turns to Dean in surprise.
"Dean. Do you really think that?"
"Oh, I don't know, Sam. Maybe. Maybe he's out there somewhere, hoping that - that you and me, we'll keep doing what we're doing, fighting all this destiny crap."
"Huh." Sam swallows, tasting the idea. It tastes like hope, but..."I don't know, Dean."
"Yeah." Dean shakes his head ruefully. "Never mind. It's crazy, I know. World's gonna end bloody. Aside from Cas and Anna, they're a bunch of ice-cold shits."
"They are," Sam agrees, feeling a muscle twitch in his jaw. He flexes his left hand impotently.
An incandescent blob of reddish-gold hovers before them, rising slowly over the mist and the grass and the water. The breeze rustles the trees overhead, and yellow leaves drift down from the birches. One falls onto the cat which is purring in Dean's lap with its eyes closed. Dean plucks the leaf and drops it aside, sliding his fingers into the cat's thick, soft fur.
"This thing's better than a blanket," he says, smiling a little.
Sam feels the darkness descend as he watches the sun rise, a black sensation that he vainly tries to shove away.
"What do you think will happen?" he manages, rough through the sudden thickness in his throat. Dean must hear the change in his voice, because his head snaps around.
"What do you mean?"
"When it's all over. End of the world. What does that mean? Is it just gonna be...us? Humans? Wiped out. Or-or-or this entire planet. The universe, even-"
"God, Sam, do we have to talk about this now?" Brittle. Anguished. Dean ducks his head and scrabbles his hand into his hair.
"I wanna know," Sam says, blinking at the tiny pinpricks in his eyes. "Is all this-" he makes a short stabbing gesture that he sweeps vaguely "-gonna stop? Maybe it won't. Maybe the sun will keep rising. Maybe. But there just won't be anyone here to see it."
"Stop it, Sam."
Sam sucks in a huge lungful of air that needles pain through his torso from his aching ribs. The thing he's carrying inside swells, and he begins to choke on it.
"I'm not ready for this, Dean." He speaks softly, ashamed.
Dean doesn't reply, his hand stroking into the cat's fur.
"I mean, I'm ready to do whatever needs to be done. I won't hesitate. But I'm not - I'm not ready to die. I've been...I've been trying to-"
"-get ready," Dean finishes heavily.
"Yeah."
"You can't," and Dean sounds savage, angry, even. He repeats more gently: "you can't." He turns to meet Sam's eyes and there's a yawning chasm there that Sam knows he'll never be able to plumb, not even if they lived forever. "Don't you think I tried? I spent a whole year trying, but really, I don't think you can ever be ready." His gaze shifts away, straight ahead, unblinking. His voice becomes stern. "Stop trying. Don't think about it, Sam. Think about the job."
"No." At Dean's look, Sam amends it. "Yes, I mean, yes, I'm thinking about the job. Of course I am. But Dean, it's only natural, isn't it? It's human. To be afraid. To wonder what's gonna happen. And-"
He stops and stares into the sun, thinking about Jess and the thousands of what ifs that crowd his brain.
Dean clears his throat again. "And what?"
Sam sighs. "Maybe that's what'll keep us us. You know. Human. We care about people, right? Those kids back there. All those innocents out there. Civilians. I just don't. I don't think we should stop caring-" he swallows uncomfortably, knowing this is dangerous territory "-about ourselves, or the future. I'm not sure that cutting ourselves off from...from whatever we're feeling is going to help us get through this."
"Jesus Christ, Sam." Dean's eyes are closed and he's shaking his head in what could be disbelief or dismissal.
The air huffs out of him before he realizes. "Yeah, I know." Sam smiles bitterly. "Laugh all you want. I'm sure I deserve it."
There's silence and breathing, and the flutter of wings as an arrow of dark birds, ducks probably, launch upwards into the sky. Sam tracks them with his eyes, and he waits for the tightness in his throat to ease up.
"I'm not laughing, Sam," Dean grates out at last. Shadows cross his sun-kissed, stubbled face, and something twists. "I'm not. And-and-and maybe you're right. But-"
Sam watches as pain unmistakably flares in Dean's sunlit green eyes. Dean is stroking the cat as though he's comforting himself.
"But?" Sam prompts softly when the silence lengthens. He's sure he can hear his own heartbeat over the breeze and the rustling leaves.
"But I can't. Maybe you can. But all I care about, all I really care about right now, is-" Dean stops abruptly on a quiver, and he gets this awful strangled look on his face. He takes a breath, and then another, and his tone is different when he begins again, tight and controlled: "-doing some good. Saving some souls. I want to go down in a fight, and god help me, I don't want you to die, but I don't want to do this alone."
"You won't, Dean," Sam says, cocking his head in confusion, and frowning. It's his penance, he knows. To say the words again and again. To prove it. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my fight, too."
Someday, maybe before we die, you will trust me again.
"I know," and Dean's voice is spent, exhausted. "I know that, Sammy."
The sun hangs before them, streaking the sky with vivid watercolor splashes, painting the marsh-water in shades of salmon and ochre and persimmon. It's beautiful, but Sam knows better than to say that aloud. He files it away, wondering how many more beautiful things he'll see before this ends. The number is dwindling with every day.
"That's it," Dean says in a different tone, deep, final, "that's all there is for me. Don't make me keep saying this to you."
"Sorry." Sam listens to the wind shivering through the high branches above them, rippling across the water. The cat stirs as Dean lifts his hand to rub his mouth, and it climbs out of Dean's lap. Sam watches it pad to the edge of the salt line and stand there, its tail waving a slow beat. Unaccountably, Sam's scalp prickles.
Dean's looking up, studying the sparkling prismatic web hanging in front of them, the rising sun shining through it in a burst of color.
"Hey, Sam," Dean begins thoughtfully. "Notice something?"
"No, what?"
"There's no spider." His head is cocked to the side, and he half-smiles. Sam looks closer, frowning, and realizes Dean's right. Some spider wove that enormous, beautiful web, and abandoned it.
Sam rolls his eyes and jabs his brother with his elbow. "God is not dead, Dean." Dean takes the hit with an oof.
"Yeah, well, you could've fooled me," Dean says, voice shaded dark, shrugging his good shoulder.
Sam tilts his head as watches the cat pace inside the salt line.
"Um, Dean?" Sam begins, stiffly, painfully pushing himself to his feet as fast as he can. He brings the bag up with him, fumbling for iron. "Look at the cat."
Dean follows his gaze in time to see the cat lightly tap his paw on the ground beside the salt line. It looks up at them and meows. Once. Twice.
Three times. It continues walking inside the curve of the wide circle Sam had made, first by scraping the dead leaves away from the earth, and then tracing the arc with salt. After what they'd faced and left behind the day before, Sam'd felt entitled to his paranoia, even out here, miles from anywhere.
"Huh." Dean staggers to his feet, his face straining with the effort. "You think-?"
"Maybe," Sam says. "But it can't be dangerous, right? I mean, if it wanted to do something, it would've done it by now, don't you think?"
Dean narrows his eyes in suspicion. "How do you feel?"
"What do you mean? I feel fine."
"Are you sure?" Dean lowers his chin, staring hard in Sam's eyes.
"Yes, I'm sure," Sam returns impatiently. "Why?"
"Well, you said the cat led you to the apples, didn't you?"
"Oh."
"Well, I feel fine, too," Dean says, as an afterthought.
"Maybe it's friendly?" Sam glances at Dean who makes a how the hell should I know? face.
The cat leaves off its pacing of the inner circumference of the circle and slinks around their ankles, rubbing like it had done the night before at the door to the cabin, only now it's meowing plaintively.
Dean rubs the back of his neck with his good hand. "Maybe we should let it out?"
Sam hesitates for several seconds before he steps toward the edge and drags his toe across the salt, breaking the line. He steps out backward, and Dean follows him. They don't take their eyes off the cat.
The cat meows once and then...oozes...through the narrow break in the salt, like smoke, but without the electricity of a demon, and it solidifies outside the salt. It blinks up at them and goes right back to curling around their ankles. It's purring, a deep, low thrum that Sam can feel shivering up through the bones of his legs.
It feels like thank you.
The cat looks up at them, and meows again before it walks away, graceful and quiet, its tail waving.
Sam meets Dean's eyes, and sees quizzical surprise reflected there. Okay, then Dean mouths exaggeratedly, his eyebrows lifted, and with a half-shrug, he moves forward to follow.
--
They've just cleared the apple trees when Sam sees her, tall and slim in riding boots and a canvas jacket, leaned up against the back of the cabin with one foot flat against the wall behind her, tapping a cowboy hat against her thigh. Not impatient. More like...expectant. She lifts her head and a wide smile floods her dark olive-skinned face.
"Well, hello, boys." Her voice is a warm purr, like coffee and Sunday pancakes and a lazy, sunny afternoon.
Dean stiffens and halts in his tracks, his right hand going into his jacket. Sam still has the iron knife in his left hand, which he shifts for a better grip, sliding it around the back where it's not so obvious.
She claps the hat back on her head, raises her hands and smiles, staying put.
"I've been waiting for you," she says. "Didn't expect to be locked out of my own place, though. Sorry about the mess. If I'd known you were coming, I'd've cleaned a little."
"Locked out?" Dean frowns, "I didn't lock anything. What-"
"She means the salt," Sam says through clenched teeth, cutting his eyes toward Dean. His heart is thumping in the back of his throat. Dean's mouth shapes oh. They both look back at her.
"I see you met Randy already."
The cat is sprawled out in the grass and leaves between them and the woman, its tail lashing in slow sweeps. It doesn't seem to be paying attention to any of them.
Dean laughs. "Seriously? The cat's name is Randy?"
The woman laughs, too. "Seriously." She considers the cat with what looks like deep fondness. "I didn't name him." Her gaze comes back up and she shrugs, tilting her head and lifting her chin slightly.
"You boys are hunters," she says, and it's not a question.
Dean clears his throat. "That's right. And you are...?"
"Name's Jane." She smiles again. "Jane Weaver. And this here's my cabin."
"You live here?" Sam asks.
She chuckles. "No, I don't live here. Does it look like I live here?"
Sam feels his heart rate begin to ease off, just a little, and the corner of his mouth quirks up.
"Okay," he says. "You got me there."
"Looks like you fellas hit a spot of trouble," she points out, her chin lifting again in acknowledgment of their slung-up arms and battered appearance, and she lowers her hands.
"You'd be right," Dean replies. "Are we gonna have trouble here?" Slight emphasis on the here. Dean sounds weary, like this is a fight he really doesn't want to have.
"Not from me." She raises her hands again at chest level. "Or from Randy. He likes you two. Told me you were here," she adds, as an afterthought.
"And we're supposed to take your word?" Sam asks. Wants to sneer, like Dean would, but he can't quite manage it.
"Yeah," she says softly, "you can take my word for it. I'm not a demon, and I won't lie to you."
"Christo," Dean says. She smiles, shrugs, and puts her hands in the pockets of jeans, pushing her coat back behind her elbows. Her eyes sparkle in amusement.
So Dean tosses her the flask of holy water which she pours over her left hand where they can see the water harmlessly drip off. She raises her wet palm to them, and it glistens in the sun.
Sam exchanges a glance with Dean who seems to make a decision as he considers her. He shrugs and heads across the space between them. Sam stays tight at his side, and Randy-the-cat comes to his feet and walks in front of them as they approach the woman. She's pretty, Sam decides, in a sturdy way, with lines around her eyes and mouth, maybe a little older than Dean with two long dark braids hanging down over her shoulders.
They introduce themselves, and Sam watches her shake Dean's hand with a good grip. Sam holds up his left palm in greeting, and she nods.
"So what are you, if salt keeps you out?" Dean asks, curious, his alert level dialed back a bit.
"I'm not a ghost, in case you're wondering. I'm also not a witch or a werewolf or a vampire, or anything else like that. I'm just Jane." She shrugs easily and leads them around to the front of the cabin where Sam sees a saddled horse and a mule tethered to a post. Well. That explains the complete absence of any tire tracks in the drive. "You boys gonna let me in?"
"Yeah," Sam says, "sorry." He steps past her and makes a break in the salt across the threshold.
"Why, thank you, Sam Winchester." She leans down to lift the pair of heavy-looking panniers she'd left on the porch, and then she walks in, right over the devil's trap chalked in front of the door and keeps going. "And I do know what you're thinking, salt keeps me out, so I must be evil, but it's not that simple. Besides, there's this little thing called free will, maybe you've heard of it?" Her eyes challenge them over her shoulder as she drops the panniers onto the couch.
Sam looks at Dean who tilts his head in agreement, gaze flickering back to the woman.
"Yeah, we've heard of it," Dean answers. "Kinda all we got going for us right now."
"Well, thank goodness for that," she says, opening one of the panniers. "By the way, you boys are damn lucky Randy was here last night, or you would've been sleeping on the side of the road."
"Oh, we're handy with locked doors," Dean assures her with an easy, confident smile.
"No, I mean, my doors can't be opened, not unless one us opens it. You know, supernatural lock? Randy here let you in. You should thank him."
Right. Randy let us in? Dean mouths at him, and Sam nearly guffaws.
"Uh, thanks?" Dean directs down at the cat rumble-purring around his ankles.
"Or," she continues matter-of-factly, "you could've disappeared into the marsh."
"Because that happens a lot?" Sam watches her clean up the table, gathering up the remaining scattered pills and energetically wiping it down with a cloth wet at the sink. "Wait, can I help you with, with something?" he asks.
"Nah," she smiles. "Why don't you boys have a seat, and let's see what we can do here."
"About what?" Dean asks, exchanging another glance with Sam before he drags out a chair and lowers himself into it. The cat leaps into Dean's lap, and he lifts his hand off the table, staring down at it warily when it begins to purr again.
"Well, breakfast, for one. You two must be hungry. And, if you want, I can help you get, ah, patched up, if you think you need some help with that. I brought a pretty good first aid kit with me," she explains.
"Wait a second," Dean breaks in incredulously, "Randy told you to bring a first aid kit?"
She dimples, and Sam feels himself matching her smile at Dean's expression.
"Yup. Said you both were in pretty rough shape when you showed up last night."
"Huh."
"So...I hope you don't mind sandwiches, 'cause that's about all I could rustle up."
Mind? Sam meets Dean's eyes and matches his amazed grin.
"No, ma'am," Dean replies, "we don't mind at all."
"Jane," Sam begins, not bothering to hide the confusion in his voice, "why are you doing all this?"
She stops cold. Gaze down, transfixed by the table for a long moment. Sam holds his breath.
"Look. I know what's out there," she says at last, "I know what's coming." She meets Sam's eyes and holds him there for a beat before shifting to Dean who's watching her curiously, lips parted in expectation.
"You're hunters. You're hunting. Even now, when it probably seems pointless-" Sam catches Dean's lifted eyebrow and his quiet noise of agreement from the back of his throat.
"-believe me," she goes on, "that means something. Consider this a thank you - least I can do."
She goes back to unloading the pannier, the cat's rumbly purr loud in the silence. Comforting. Dean's got his hand back in the beast's fur, scratching at the cat's scruff.
"Oh, I nearly forgot," Jane says in a brighter voice, as she pulls wrapped sandwiches from the pannier and piles them on the table. She looks Sam in the eye. "You need to thank Randy, too."
"Okay," Sam leans over and peers down into Dean's lap. The cat blinks up at him and meows. "Thanks, Randy." He looks back at Jane.
"Why?"
She peels off the lid of a plastic container and shoves it under his nose.
Chocolate chip cookies.
FIN
--
Notes: I haven't finished a fic in a very long time, over a year. This took about a week to write and more or less poured out unexpectedly.
My thanks to anamuan and to C for reading through this for me. ♥
Title from Foreigner's "Long, Long Way From Home."
Soundtrack: MU | MF
1. Rooster Moans - Iron & Wine
2. Mirages - Marillion
3. Remembrance Day - A Northern Chorus
4. Running Up That Hill - Kate Bush
5. When Morning Comes - Dishwalla
6. I'm Not Done - Fever Ray
7. Indian Summer Sky - U2
8. One More Mile - Tom McRae
9. Triangle Walks - Fever Ray