Carry On... Episode 12: These Broken Wings Part 2

[kiscinca]

Here is part 2 of episode 12 of Carry On...



Episode 12: These Broken Wings

Original airdate: 2010.04.26

Summary:

In the aftermath of Alastair’s attack, the brothers are broken in mind and spirit. Despite Bobby’s best efforts, the boys continue to struggle with their fears and weaknesses. Can they conquer these new wounds in time to save each other? Or will they end up as victims after all.

Excerpt:

"Nothing I can't make right," John said. "But I need your help. You have to take care of my boys. Bobby. Please."

The request was plaintive, emphatic. If this was a con, it was a pretty damn good one.

But Bobby couldn't help it. He just couldn't. He could still remember John's face the first time he showed up on Bobby's doorstep all those years ago, those two damn rug rats in tow. They'd all been younger then, but John's face had been just as tired and grizzled as ever.

If he was honest, Bobby knew he'd been whipped since then. One look from John's deep, sad eyes, one glimpse at those two boys holding onto each other like they were all the other had--and Bobby had never even had a chance.

Resigned, Bobby picked up a piece of paper and a pencil. "I need a location, John," he said, voice tight and even. He had his priorities. The boys came first. Always.

"Fargo, Georgia," John repeated. "The hospital."

Bobby's panic sprang to life, questions coming to his tongue. But before he could ask anything, before he could utter another word, the line went dead, the dial tone resounding heavily in Bobby's ears.

Written by: deej1957 and faye_dartmouth

Artist: faye_dartmouth

PART TWO

Sam still hurt.

He was smart enough to know that while some of it was real, some of it just wasn’t. Psychosomatic symptoms, phantom sensations--they were only as real as people let them be.

Sam might have believed once that he was stronger than that. He wouldn’t have let himself fall victim to such weak mind tricks. Mind over matter--a maker of his own destiny. Too much a Winchester to let that kind of thing have any hold over him.

He might have believed it once, but he’d been very, very wrong.

Even the simple act of sitting down made his entire body ache these days. It had been over a week since Bobby had sprung them from the hospital, over a month since he’d woken up in the hospital, and it still wasn’t going away. It might never go away.

In some ways, that was okay with Sam. The pain was a reminder. A constant, unyielding reminder about how wrong he’d been. About everything.

He’d been wrong to ask questions. He’d been wrong to want something more for himself. He’d been wrong to walk away from his family. He’d been wrong not to tell Jessica the truth.

He’d been wrong not to kill his father. He’d been wrong to trust Jake. He’d been wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

And he could feel it, his total failure, through every healing cut and lingering bruise on his sore body.

Alastair’s cruelty was more than knives and shocks. It was stark honesty, which could eviscerate him with far more depth and pain. The horrors of being shackled were fading memories now, along with the scars on his skin. But what Alastair had showed him, what he had made Sam learn, was burned into his mind with vivid clarity.

In truth, he’d preferred dwelling on the physical injuries, which, part of him knew was why he still clung to that pain. He felt fragile in so many ways and so he guarded the only things he could. There was nothing he could do to shield himself for his mistakes and failures.

Most of his wounds were healed. There was only a lingering trace of the cuts Alastair had inflicted, though the deep gash along his side was still raised and purple. He’d given up the sling for his shoulder when Bobby had asked him if he still needed it. Even with the sling gone, Sam unconsciously kept his arm close to him, and it was still hard to force that arm into its full range of motion, no matter how often he practiced under Bobby’s watchful eye.

And Bobby did watch. Bobby Singer was nothing if not a practical man, and he approached Sam’s recovery with a simple straightforwardness Sam might have liked in earlier times. As it was, it was still better than the falsely positive atmosphere of the hospital back in Georgia. There was a gruffness about Bobby that kept him from cheap platitudes, which at least kept Sam’s sense of guilt to a minimum.

It didn’t make the therapy any easier, though. If anything, Bobby pushed him harder than his physical therapist in the hospital. The routines were simple, working his muscles in equal turns, slowly building up his endurance in each major body area. The workouts had always focused on his shoulder, trying to ensure that the ligaments and muscles didn’t heal too tight and permanently impair his motion. Bobby had stuck to that, but had added in a round of other exercises, working everything from his upper body to his legs.

Sam was no stranger to workouts--in fact, the physical training had been something he’d taken to with a flourish ever since leaving Stanford. He’d like the solitary effort involved with working out, pushing his body to its limits, hindered only by himself. It seemed like those were tangible things with tangible results, and in the messed up reality that was his life, he’d needed that order.

But it was harder now--on every level. The simple exercises challenged him, and he became winded far too easily. He’d been flat on his back for the better part of a month, and that alone had taken a toll on his body even without the lingering gifts of Alastair’s torture.

It was sort of weird, having Bobby do all this for him. Bobby had been the one to help him out of bed in the hospital, the one to help him navigate the early solo bathroom trips. Bobby had been the one to get him water, the one to fluff his pillows. Even now, Bobby was the one organizing the training, making sure Sam slept and ate.

Not that he wouldn’t have thought Bobby would go there for him, but Sam had just never figured he’d have to. That was always Dean’s job.

There was a certain painfulness in acknowledging that, but Sam wouldn’t let himself dwell on it. Dean had already given Sam so much, and for once it was actually kind of nice not to be a burden to his brother. Yet, that didn’t make it any easier to inflict such things on Bobby, who endured the day to day trials of playing trainer and nursemaid with a certain soft passion that he hadn’t expected from the gruff hunter.

It made Sam feel so guilty that he almost wished he could let go of the pain. He didn’t want to fail Bobby, not after all this.

In the end, though, Sam figured it was pretty much a moot point. Sam was a failure waiting to happen, and he didn’t know how to tell Bobby that without hurting his feelings.

Besides, what right did Sam have to his own life, anyway? He should be dead. He’d gotten himself killed in Cold Oak (another one of those brilliant choices he’d made) and the fact that he was still among the living didn’t change the fact that Sam didn’t deserve to be alive.

But not on Bobby’s watch. Sam had hurt too many people; he couldn’t hurt Bobby, too.

So he’d do the therapy. He’d make the small talk. He’d eat the food.

Which really was the struggle of the hour. He managed to get somewhat comfortable on Bobby’s couch. It wasn’t very interesting, but he’d opened a book to disguise the fact that all he wanted to do was stare into nothing and forget he existed.

It was a simple reprieve, but all too short. He could hear Bobby in the kitchen, muttering as he fiddled around, and something sizzling on the stove. Bobby had always been a creative cook, but he seemed to be pulling out all the stops these days, despite the fact that Sam had no desire to eat.

“Dinner!” Bobby yelled from the kitchen. “You two yahoos get your asses in here before it gets cold.”

Sam sighed, letting the book flop next to him on the couch. He looked toward the kitchen forlornly, trying to figure out just how many painstaking steps it would take to get there.

The simple answer: too many.

But Bobby had cooked; what was Sam supposed to do?

With effort, Sam pushed himself up with his good arm. Pain flared for a moment in his side, but he willed himself on, moving his stiff legs toward the kitchen with an uneasy gait. He managed to get it under control by the time he reached the table.

Bobby had three plates laid out, mismatched but clean, and the older hunter was busily ladling steaming food onto them. Some kind of casserole--spiral noodles and tomato sauce, with an array of kidney beans, diced tomatoes and corn--served next to a cold pile of assorted vegetables.

It was warm and balanced and it made Sam’s stomach turn.

“Smells good,” he said feebly, awkwardly maneuvering himself into one of the seats.

Bobby made a low sound in the back of his throat. “Lots of protein in it,” he said, finishing with an extra helping on Sam’s plate. “It’s good for you.”

Sam tried to smile, picking up his fork. “Thanks,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it.

Bobby looked at him, skepticism registering on his face. “So where’s that brother of yours?”

With a small laugh, Sam ducked his head. “Where do you think?”

Bobby made a face of disgust. “Still?”

Sam just shrugged.

“Damn boy needs to get off his ass sometime,” Bobby grumbled. “It wouldn’t kill him to make an effort.”

It was a familiar rant, one that Sam couldn’t help but feel guilty for anyway. The fact that they were in this mess was his fault. It had always been his fault.

Sam’s meager attempt at humor faded back to melancholy, and he pushed at the food on his plate. Looking up, Sam tried to offer a semblance of a smile. “Do you want me to go get him?”

Bobby snorted a bit. “I’d like to see you try.”

“He might listen,” Sam lied. Besides, it would get him out of eating, at least for a small time. The effort and pain it took to go find Dean would be worth it.

However, he wasn’t sure any reprieve was worth talking to his brother.

He loved Dean--he really did--but that didn’t make it any easier to talk to his brother these days. Dean was short with him, callous and vicious, and Sam had to wonder how much better off Dean would be if Sam had just stayed dead.

That was hard--maybe harder than the rest. The bond between them had always been the most important thing, the one thing he’d clung to even when everything else had failed. Now it just seemed to be gone. They coexisted, but it was like they were different people. They didn’t even know each other.

It had been a little like that after Sam left Stanford, but this was so much worse, and Sam was smart enough to know why. There was no way they could know one another when they didn’t know themselves at all.

Bobby gave a halfhearted shrug. “Just make it quick,” he said.

Sam nodded with an anemic smile. “No problem.”

Promise made, Sam had no choice but to follow through. With a deep breath, he hoisted himself up, focusing on the ache throughout his body to numb him for the emotional beating that was about to come.

-o-

This place was so boring.

They had only been here a few days and it already felt like the walls were closing in. Maybe it was his limited mobility, maybe it was the freakin’ South Dakota winter outside, maybe it was because life was just so utterly dull.

Dean glared at the TV, changing the channel mindlessly.

Had life always been this boring?

It didn’t seem like it. He actually had fond memories of Bobby’s place, especially when he was a kid. Sure, the books inside had always seemed a little stuffy to him, even at a young age, but the place itself--the creaky walls, the vast junkyard outside--well, that had always been sort of the closest thing Dean knew to heaven.

Scrap metal and car parts, hunks of rusting gems just waiting for a healing touch or a scavenging saw and a whole lot of creativity and welding. It was the place of dreams, where spare parts and discarded junk could become something more, something awesome.

Dean had spent more than his fair share of time wandering the grounds aimlessly, looking for his diamond in the rough, safe within the confines of Bobby’s immaculately secure wards.

Those had been good times--happy memories. A lot of happy memories. Watching Rumsfield chase mice in the yard. Playing hide and seek with Sammy among the glinting cars. Sitting with his dad next to the fire, listening to the soft breathing in his father’s chest while he did research for his latest case.

Some of the best memories he had.

Except they didn’t feel like his anymore. He knew the salvage yard was still there, mostly unchanged, and it even looked like Bobby had picked up a fair share of new ones since their last visit. But it just didn’t call to him like it used to.

Nothing called to him like it used to.

Not even those buxom blondes prancing around in bikinis on TV. He didn’t even have the heart to be jealous of David Hasslehoff.

Annoyed, he flipped the channel again. Bobby didn’t even get cable, and the jerry-rigged rabbit ears were hit and miss with the stations. Not that it would do any good. Dean was pretty sure no matter how many channels Bobby got on his piece of crap TV, Dean would be just as mind numbingly and comprehensively bored.

He’d toyed with the notion of taking off--the thought had been in the back of his mind ever since he’d remastered the art of walking back in Georgia. It had niggled at him more heavily in the car with Bobby and Sam driving cross country. But where was he going to go? And more importantly, why did he want to go? What would he even pretend to do? To hunt? To save people?

That was downright laughable. The joke of the damn century.

Dean couldn’t save anyone, and he was pretty damn tired of playing the eternal Winchester cheerleader.

He just wanted to forget that he’d ever bothered in the first place. A whole lifetime of effort, of well meaning lies, for nothing. His family all left him anyway--they all died out, one right after another, under Dean’s ever-vigilant eye. Hell, his father had even died for him, and Dean had still managed to be a disappointment after the fact.

So, what the hell. He figured he was better off with his butt parked on Bobby’s couch, letting his brain rot away on static-filled craptastic programming.

Of course, this would be a hell of a lot easier if Sam wasn’t around. Not that he wasn’t glad that the kid was alive--he could never want Sam dead--but his brother was a walking talking reminder of everything Dean had ever done wrong. As if he hadn’t had enough nightmares about Sam’s death, now he had to face them on a whole new level of horror. Sam’s very existence was a testament to Dean’s epic failure. Dean had given everything he had and it still hadn’t even been close to enough.

That weight--that encompassing, horrible weight--eclipsed everything else.

He needed to find Bobby’s alcohol--badly. He didn’t know where the older man had stashed it, but the well meaning caretaker routine was enough to make Dean reconsider his plan to stick around. At least at a motel he could drink himself into oblivion and watch Pay Per View while he got there.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam slink into the room. The kid had his head ducked, and he didn’t move past the doorway. He stood there rigidly, his arm still tucked against his torso, obviously waiting to be acknowledged.

As far as Dean was concerned, he could keep on waiting. He flipped the channel, squinting to try to make out the picture beyond the snowy static on screen.

Finally, Sam cleared his throat. “Uh, Bobby wanted me to tell you that dinner was ready.”

Dean didn’t look at his brother. “I heard him yell.”

Sam waited a beat. “So, um. Bobby wanted you to come eat.”

Dean grunted a bit. “And why exactly does this matter to me?”

Sam shifted, grimacing as he moved his weight from one leg to another. The kid was clearly uncomfortable there, but it wasn’t like this was much easier for Dean. Thinking of what that monster had done to Sam--what he’d done to Sam while Dean was right there--

It was enough to make the rage boil up in his throat until he almost choked on it.

But he always swallowed it back down. After all, Dean had nothing else he could do.

It was something, at least, that Sam’s bruises were gone. Now he could at least keep himself from flinching when he accidentally caught his eye. Now, he could just look through Sam altogether, as if Sam were barely tethered to this damn forsaken plane at all.

“He put a lot of time into it,” Sam said, sounding weary, a little desperate. They both knew how this conversation would go--at least, they should. They had it every night.

“That’s great for him,” Dean said. “Tell him to buy some beer next time and I’ll consider coming in.”

Sam’s response was well meaning, but fell flat. He just didn’t have the little brother charm these days. “We need to get our strength back up.”

Dean snickered a bit at that. “Yeah, and how’s that going for you, Sam?” he asked, giving his brother a pointed look.

Sam blanched a little. “I just--was trying to do Bobby a favor.”

A small stab of guilt hit Dean in the gut. But he had to do this. It wasn’t his responsibility to be Sam’s big brother. It wasn’t. The sooner they learned that, the better off they’d both be.

Throat tight, Dean stared hard at the TV. “Yeah, well, do me a favor, and tell Bobby to leave me the hell alone.”

At that, Sam nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

The guilt wouldn’t go away--not with Sam’s damn puppy eyes the way they were. Behind all the deference and apologies, Sam really wanted him to come.

And that really was the hardest. Not just that he couldn’t be Sam’s big brother, but that Sam still wanted him to, and Dean would have to let him down again. There’d been a time when Dean couldn’t refuse Sam anything.

But that was a part of himself that Dean had left back on that altar where Alastair had taken it apart--taken Dean apart. Took it along with everything else good that Dean had ever had.

His brother shuffled in the doorway, turning with a limping gait back toward the kitchen. Distantly, he heard Bobby curse and the clink of silverware on glass filled the room.

Damn distraction, Dean thought. He sniffled, wiping at his nose. He needed to forget about it, needed to let it go.

With no other way out, Dean just turned up the volume until he couldn’t hear anything at all.

-o-

It had been a hell of a week.

Of course, South Dakota in winter had never been Bobby’s favorite thing, but it was just one of those unfortunate things he’d always taken as part of the job. His property was vast, which not only made for a good junkyard, but afforded him good space and distance, both from the supernatural pests as well as the human variety.

But still--those winters were always a beast. Cold and hard. Even when there wasn’t a blanket of white as far as the eye could see, everything just seemed frigid and frozen, as though the cold had permeated everything. It made the area feel like a wasteland.

Mostly, he’d always made do. That was just the way it was for Bobby. Hot or cold, rain or shine, Bobby got by, did his own thing, and handled the rest as it came.

At least, that was what he’d done until now.

He was somewhat used to having the Winchester boys crash at his place. Ever since they’d come back into his life, they’d been an increasingly common presence, and Bobby knew they’d fallen into their old routines--Sam on the couch, Dean on the floor, bitching over who got the first shower in the morning while the water was still somewhat warm.

If only it were that easy this time.

In all truth, the week had been painfully slow--in all possible ways. From watching the pain written across Sam’s face as he moved, to watching the clock tick by as Dean did nothing, playing Uncle Bobby was certainly taking a toll on him.

He wasn’t mad about it, of course. He could still remember those early days in the hospital, seeing the boys look more dead than alive. It was enough to make him keep trying no matter how difficult the two jackasses made things, but now he was just frustrated.

And maybe a little stir crazy.

Or a lot stir crazy.

Through it all, he’d been patient and gentle, keeping them on a schedule with their ongoing physical therapy and consistent small meals throughout the day. Dr. Cameron had told him it’d be slow going, that they would need space and encouragement, but they’d get there eventually.

Eventually couldn’t come soon enough. Not even a week and Bobby was wondering if he’d made the biggest mistake of his life checking the boys out and bringing them here.

Not that he’d really had another choice. Their physical injuries were healing as best they could, and there wasn’t a damn thing the shrink at the hospital could do for those boys. No, Bobby had to trust that was where they needed to be even if they were too lost and stubborn to see it themselves.

It didn’t make it any easier, though.

The lethargy, the wincing, the utter slowness of it all.

In all, it was pretty damn near ridiculous. Neither boy had even managed to stay awake until midnight on New Years Eve, leaving Bobby alone with a bottle of woefully insufficient sparkling grape juice and Dick Clark’s countdown on mute in the background.

John Winchester owed him one. More like ten.

Of course, Bobby still wasn’t doing it for him. He was still doing it for the boys. Which was enough to get up morning after morning to keep them on track. He had to build their strength, build their confidence, build them, any damn way he could.

He’d tried enticing Dean with a mechanics project. He’d tried getting Sam back into research. Both of those efforts had met with varied and lackluster results, so it was time for a new tactic.

Which led him to the task of the day: sparring.

It might have been a little early for that, but they’d been back in South Dakota for a week now, and Bobby was running out of things to motivate the boys. Between Sam following him around like a lost puppy and Dean sulking in the front room watching TV, Bobby figured some honest physical activity would do them some good. They needed the exercise, and doing something spontaneous and interactive might make things more interesting than the repetitive exercises he’d picked up from the hospital. Plus, he knew these two, and they were competitive at heart. A little brotherly action could help pull them out of their respective funks.

It had been a bit of a task, though, getting the barn set up. He used it for tools and repairs. He’d had to use a blower to make sure the floor was free from any pieces of metal or scraps that could be harmful. Luckily the thing was wired, so he’d plugged in a few space heaters to take an edge off the winter air. He would have used a room inside, but his old place was simply too small and too cramped. Besides, the fresh air would do them all some good.

The bigger trick had been getting both boys out there--at the same time, no less. Sam had readily agreed, though Bobby could see the hesitation on his face, and when the kid had flinched so horribly just taking off his heavy jacket, Bobby had considered calling the whole thing off right then and there.

But he’d actually gotten Dean to join them, and that was the coup he couldn’t overlook. Dean didn’t do anything these days, least of all when he was asked to. Bobby had found his weakness, though--he’d simply threatened to throw the old TV out the window. The small coercion worked, with much grousing from the older Winchester, but Bobby would take what he could get. This was likely going to be his only chance for a while to get these two kids back on track.

It had to be like riding a bike. Sam and Dean were trained--and thoroughly so. John had always been rough on his kids, treating them like recruits, not children more often than not. As a consequence, both boy were knowledgeable in weapons and self defense on a level that was well beyond their years.

So sure, they might be a little rusty--Bobby had expected that. Hell, given everything they had been through, it was a given. But he hadn’t quite expected them to be so...well...pathetic.

Sam looked like he was trying at least, his forehead scrunched with the effort and concentration. But every move the youngest Winchester made was stilted, almost reserved, and his mouth was twisted in a permanent grimace. He had always been prone to fighting defensive, but that was multiplied tenfold as he curled away protectively when Dean as much as stepped in his direction. Sam couldn’t seem to extend either arm well enough, and his punches were so slow that Dean could see them coming a mile off. The kid’s kicks were a bit better coordinated, but that didn’t stop Sam from flailing around like a newborn colt most of the time.

Sam’s only saving grace during the sparring was that Dean was too indifferent to mount anything resembling a serious offense. His punches were downright lazy, haphazard haymakers that could have caused real damage if they connected, but whiffed more often than they even came close to connecting. It was clear that Dean could be more agile as he ducked and spun from Sam’s off kilter efforts, but Bobby saw him pass on multiple opportunities to take Sam down with a simple submission hold.

Not that Bobby wanted the brothers to beat each other senseless, but he had been hoping that the activity would wake them up a bit. It was almost painful to watch. Sam and Dean were mere shadows of themselves, weak approximations of the boys he used to know.

Clenching his jaw hard, he forced himself to just watch. It felt almost masochistic, though, and he was beginning to seriously regret trying this at all.

Dean lashed out with a right that should have connected, but didn’t. Sam responded late, twisting away in defense. It was enough to miss the wayward blow, but wreaked havoc with his balance, and the younger boy tripped over his own feet in his effort to evade the punch. He fumbled, arms going wide as if to reclaim some semblance of control, but it was too late. He went down hard, refusing to use either arm to catch himself and cushion the fall.

As if that weren’t enough, his downward movement extended wildly to his legs, which kicked out aimlessly, tangling hopelessly in Dean’s.

The older brother was too off his game to stop himself, his balance suffering easily. He spat a curse, but couldn’t stop himself, his legs too ensnared to regain control. Dean went down, on top of Sam.

Their bodies collided on the ground with equal oofs, and Bobby winced at the meaty thunk as it resounded through to the rafters of the barn.

It actually might have been funny--all that flailing and swearing and complete awkwardness--if the boys weren’t recovering from life threatening injuries.

Rushing forward, Bobby started with Dean, pulling him off his younger brother. Dean yelped angrily, letting loose another string of obscenities. He stumbled off his brother with force, retreating from Bobby’s helping hands with malice in his eyes. Dean was panting and red-faced but okay.

Turning his attention to Sam, Bobby saw the younger boy was white as a sheet, wide eyed.

For a second, Bobby feared the worst. He remembered the bruises and cuts, the bandages and tubes. He remembered the long days in the hospital with nothing but silence.

Swallowing hard, Bobby fought the unbidden sting in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he demanded, his voice thick with a sudden surge of emotion.

Dean snorted. “What the hell do you think?”

Sam nodded meagerly.

Bobby looked at Sam, still on the ground, then looked at Dean, standing off from them. They were okay. No blood, no tears. No fresh cuts, no new bruises. They were okay.

Blowing out a breath, Bobby forced himself to calm. He needed to keep it together. He had no choice. He couldn’t help them unless he was in control of himself.

And they so clearly needed his help, even if they weren’t ready to take it.

With another steadying breath, Bobby offered a hand to Sam. The kid took it reluctantly, letting himself be hoisted to his feet.

Making sure Sam was steady, Bobby sighed, taking off his hat and scrubbing a hand through his hair. “That’s enough for today,” he said, pulling his cap back on.

Dean snorted again. “I think it was probably enough for forever,” he muttered.

Bobby ignored him.

For his part, Sam smiled, a little sheepish. “Thanks for trying,” he said.

Bobby couldn’t be sure which was worse--Dean’s poor attitude or Sam’s eternal gratitude.

In the end, which one was worse didn’t matter. He had to fix them both--and soon. “Yeah, well, thanks for giving it a go today,” Bobby returned. “Why don’t you two head back inside?”

Dean just shook his head, already turned and headed in that direction.

Sam took the time to pick up his coat, giving Bobby one last halfhearted smile before he trailed after his brother.

It was hard to watch them go. Hard to watch them suffering so much. How was he going to fix the things they wouldn’t talk about? How was he going to get them back on track? How was he going to show them that there was still something worth fighting for--that they were still worth fighting for?

Bobby knew there wasn’t a quick fix, but he needed any fix. Something to get them focused. To get them grounded. To help them reconnect--if not with themselves, then with each other.

That always had been the thing with the two of them. Even when they couldn’t take care of their own damned problems, the other one could step up and do it for them. When one was weak, the other was strong. They trusted each other, implicitly, and it had always been all they needed.

More than a good meal and a strong training program, that was what they needed--each other. Bobby could never hope to fix one or the other. He had to redirect their focus on the one thing that made them stronger than anyone else Bobby had ever met.

In short, he had to make them remember what it meant to be brothers.

Chewing his lower lip, he thought he might just have the trick. It would be hard to get them to do it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Take care of my boys.

That was what Bobby had promised John, what he had promised himself, and he wasn’t about to give up on that just yet.

-o-

Sam felt guilty about Bobby. The older hunter was trying so hard--too hard--but Sam didn’t know how to live up to everything that Bobby wanted from him. He could eat the meals, he could do the exercises, but he just couldn’t let himself go. He just couldn’t be normal again.

He was being downright pathetic, and he knew it. But what else was he supposed to do? He was pathetic. Worse, he was tainted.

The images from Alastair’s trip inside his brain were too hard to shake. Why, Sam, why?

Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam pinched hard at the bridge of his nose, trying to make the throbbing memories subside.

Finding his father on the floor of the hospital. Dean crying out for mercy in the cabin in Missouri. Jessica on the ceiling. The blood in his mouth as a baby. Why, Sam, why?

Because he was evil. He was evil and he was wrong and he killed everyone he loved. His very life was wrong. He died in Cold Oak--he should still be dead.

And yet, here he was. Causing problems for Dean all over again. Causing problems for Bobby.

Opening his eyes, Sam looked around the room wearily again. He had to stop being a burden, at least as much as he could. It’d be easier if he wasn’t so tired all the time.

With a sigh, he forced himself to his feet. There wasn’t anything he could do for Dean, but Bobby seemed to like it when Sam took the initiative on things.

It wasn’t much, but it was as much as Sam could do these days. Burying the gnawing ache throughout his body, he ambled as casually as he could to the study. Dean was sprawled out on the couch, watching something mindless on TV. Bobby was hunched over at the table, scowling.

Between Dean’s vacant watching and Bobby’s focused concentration, Sam sort of wished he’d stayed in the other room.

It was too late for that, though, and Sam’s body was too sore to want to take the short walk back to the other room anyway.

Bolstering the vestiges of his resolve, Sam pulled out the chair across from Bobby, sitting down as gently as he could. “Something wrong?” he asked.

Bobby spared him a glance before looking back at his open text again. “Just this hunt I’m looking into for a friend,” he said shortly.

Sam nodded, wishing Bobby would elaborate. When no such elaboration came, Sam forced himself to prod. “What kind of hunt?”

Bobby sighed, shaking his head. “Hard to say for sure,” he admitted. “I was put onto it by a friend of mine out in California. He was on his way to check it out but got waylaid by a vamp’s nest up in Seattle.”

Sam nodded again, trying to match Bobby’s level of concern and thought. He peeked at the texts--something about highway deaths. “Ghost?” he asked.

Bobby shrugged. “Maybe, but until someone gets down there and does some leg work, it’s really hard to say.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Bobby’s eyes lifted at that, meeting Sam’s with something akin to hope.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Bobby’s gaze skittered away, the pinched look of concern settling over his features once again. “Not much we can do,” he said with a frown. “I can’t leave the place for another week to go help him. I’m way behind on the salvage yard as it is.”

Sam hadn’t even considered that. Bobby was a hunter in his mind; the salvage yard had always seemed like a side occupation. A hobby or a cover. But even hunters had bills, and with as many roots as Bobby had in South Dakota, it was pretty clear that aliases and credit card scams were out. Bobby used the salvage yard as a legitimate business--his livelihood--and Sam had taken him away from that for an entire month.

Worse, he was still there, using up resources, giving nothing of substance back.

Dean grunted from the couch. “Like it matters.”

Bobby spared his brother a glance, and Sam sat up straighter, feeling compelled to offer something more. He owed Bobby--even if he didn’t care much about his own recovery or his own life for that matter, Bobby had worked hard to get them both here. He owed the hunter something.

Besides, research was his thing, the one area of the hunt he’d always considered himself proficient at. “Well, maybe I can give it a look,” Sam offered.

Bobby raised his eyebrows. “You think you’re up for it?”

Sam nodded earnestly. “I haven’t managed to hurt myself reading a book yet,” he said with a weak grin.

Bobby returned his smile, pushing the open book Sam’s way. “That area hasn’t got much history of any supernatural problems, so we’re looking at something somewhat modern.” Bobby pointed midway down the page. “I did find some references to road spirits here, but I’m not sure that’s what we’re looking at.”

Sam scanned the page quickly. “Unless it was transplanted from somewhere, you’d think there’d be more sightings in the area.”

“Deaths started up just a few months ago.”

“How many fatalities?” Sam asked.

Bobby handed him a stack of printouts. “About three, so far.”

Sam flipped through them, grimacing a little. “And your friend can’t check it out?”

Bobby shook his head, looking regretful. “The vamps tied him up longer than he thought. He thinks it’ll be at least another week before he has that mess cleaned up.”

“You should go yourself,” Dean sniped from the couch. “You do seem to be hell bent on saving pitiful souls these days.”

Sam flinched a little at the tone, but Bobby gave Dean a withering look. “At least most of them would be grateful,” he snapped back.

“I never asked to be saved,” Dean said, not looking up from the TV.

“You wanted to be left in that warehouse to die?” Bobby asked.

Sam tried to control his breathing, the memories of the candles, the bare bulb, the cold stone beneath him, the bite of metal around his wrist--

“Couldn’t have been worse than this,” Dean said. He finally looked back. “Admit it, old man. You wish you’d left us there.”

“I wasn’t the one who dragged you to the hospital, so don’t look at me.”

The comment cut through Sam’s growing discomfort, bringing a facet of his time in Alastair’s clutches into focus. He remembered how he got caught. He remembered the painfully creative ways Alastair had decimated him. He even remembered the would-be finishing blow from Alastair’s powers. And he remembered waking up.

But he didn’t remember who saved him.

Funny, in all of his nightmares, all of his waking terrors, the question had never really occurred to him. What made Alastair stop. Who took them to the hospital. If not Bobby...

Dean’s face showed similar thoughts, and he regarded Bobby with sudden coolness.

Bobby smirked a bit. “You curious?” he asked.

“What do you know?” Dean demanded sharply.

“What’s it worth to you?”

Dean made a face. “What?”

“What is that information worth to you?”

“Are you blackmailing me?” Dean questioned with bitter incredulity.

Bobby just shrugged. “Just thought we could do each other a favor.”

“You don’t have anything I need,” Dean said with a huff, turning back to the TV.

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. As afraid as he was to find out, he was even more terrified of not knowing.

“Suit yourself,” Bobby said.

Sam shook his head, wetting his lips. “What do you want us to do?”

Bobby looked at him, a bit resigned. “Just a favor.”

“Name it,” Sam replied instantly.

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean cut him off. “He’s screwing with you.”

Sam looked to his brother. “Don’t you want to know? Come on, don’t you need to know?”

“I know everything I need to,” Dean told him, giving Sam a nonplussed glance. “I know we should have died on Alastair’s table, and that’s all that matters.”

There was some truth to that--Sam knew that much--but something in him needed to know.

Dean did, too. Even if his older brother wouldn’t admit it, Sam could see it in his face.

Sam held Dean’s gaze, tilting his head imploringly. He needed this. They needed this.

Dean’s face hardened and his nostrils flared. He turned angry eyes to Bobby again. “What is it you want from us?”

“Just a little help on this case.”

“A little help with your dumb ass road spirit case,” Dean clarified. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Bobby promised.

Dean hesitated, looking at Sam again, before turning his defiant eyes back to Bobby. “Fine.”

Bobby’s face lit up with victory. “Good,” he said. Then he pulled himself together, eyes darting between them. “You boys sure you’re ready for this?”

“You already blackmailed us into it,” Dean said shortly.

Bobby took a breath, nodding. “Now understand, I don’t know all the details,” he started.

Dean groaned. “You tricked us then.”

“I got a phone call,” Bobby persisted, giving Dean a meaningful look.

“Oh, wow, that’s insightful,” Dean said.

Sam ignored him. “From who?” he asked.

Bobby pressed his lips together, his eyes lingering on Sam’s. “Your daddy.”

Sam’s mind stopped working. Of all the answers, of all the possibilities, that had been one that hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d considered Bob, he’d considered a wayward stranger. He’d considered Azazel or some twist of fate from Alastair himself.

But their father?

The one with black eyes? The one who had hunted them down and tried to kill them?

“You’re lying,” Dean said, his voice low and deadly.

Bobby shook his head. “I was pretty surprised myself,” he said.

Dean swore. “You’re screwing with us,” he said. “Sammy, he’s screwing with us.”

Sam almost believed it. Almost had to believe it.

“He called my emergency line,” Bobby informed them. “No one has that number. No demon could ever get that number.”

“But Dad has it,” Sam breathed.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Dean said, his denials adamant and strong.

“Why?” Sam asked. “Why would he...after everything...?”

Bobby shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you,” he said.

“That’s because it’s not true,” Dean insisted.

“Why would I lie to you about that?” Bobby asked, and for a moment his pretenses were gone. The words were aggravated and desperate. He composed himself, his voice dropping. “I was pretty damn surprised myself, couldn’t figure out his angle. But he...he wanted me to take care of you. I think he’s the one who took you to the hospital. He’s the one who made sure your aliases were covered. I don’t know what connections he has, but he has to have some good ones.”

“He was probably in on it,” Dean said. “The son of a bitch was Alastair’s BFF down under.”

“I thought about that,” Bobby conceded. “But John said he had to take care of things. I think there’s a reason he didn’t stick around even after he made sure you were taken care of.”

“But why?” Sam asked again, voice raw and mind reeling.

Bobby turned earnest eyes to him. “Because somewhere in that mess he’s in, he still loves you.”

He still loves you.

Sam had been so terrified that their father had died thinking Sam hated him. He had been so angry thinking that their father could have died hating him. All he’d ever wanted was a second chance, to know he was more than a burden, more than a curse. A son. He still loves you.

“So,” Bobby said. “What about that favor.”

Sam looked blankly at the older man and Dean snorted in condescension from the couch. “You think lying to us warrants a favor?”

The older man’s posture stiffened and his face hardened. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes and a no-nonsense timber in his voice. “I told you what I know.”

Dean blew out an angry breath. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Fine. One favor, old man. Nothing more, nothing less.”

A small grin spread across Bobby’s face, with an ornery twinkle of hope in his eyes. “I got it all ready for you,” he said.

“Throw some books at me then,” Dean said, flipping off the TV.

“It’s not in a book,” Bobby told them.

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Then where?”

Bobby’s gaze wandered to the window, looking out onto the front drive. The Impala was parked there, freshly washed and sparkling, a pile of bags clearly visible in the backseat.

“Dude,” Dean said. “No way.”

“You said you’d help,” Bobby told him with a shrug.

“No way.”

“A promise is a promise, Dean,” Bobby reminded him. “Now get your ass out there before I kick you to the curb myself.”

Sam gaped a little, closing his mouth. He laughed lightly. “Not bad,” he said, shaking his head.

“You’re going to compliment him?” Dean said crossly.

“He did say one favor.”

Dean muttered a curse. “Fine,” he said. “But I’m driving, and if I hear one word out of you about the music, I’m going to leave your ass on the side of the road.”

With that, Dean stormed toward the front door. Sam glanced at Bobby, a small smile on his face, before he headed after his brother.

END OF PART TWO