What Remains -- Part 2/4
Sam showers, scrubs at his face until it feels like he's peeled off a layer of skin. He feels stretched over the mouth of a wide, yawning pit that he could fall into at any time. He's been feeling more and more like that, since he rescued Dean, like everything is going to catch up with them at any moment. He doesn't like what he becomes, what he allows himself to do when he goes there, lets that wash over him. It's more than he can afford, more than he can deal with right now. He needs to pull himself back from the edge.
He calls Bobby first. "Fuck, kid," Bobby says, heavy into the phone when Sam tells him about the amnesia. "Not anything?"
"It was like meeting a stranger with his face," Sam says quietly.
"Fuck," Bobby says again.
"Yeah." Sam scratches his foot against the bearskin rug spread in the corner. "Listen," he says. "You think you could come down? I want to go into the woods, make sure that thing is dead."
"The piper?"
"If that's what it is, yeah. I don't want to do it alone."
"Hell no, you don't want to do it alone. Give me two days."
Sam hangs up with Bobby and falls onto the bed. He watches the ceiling fan for a little bit, the way the light moves across the walls. He's not tired, he's not hungry. He picks his phone up again and calls the station. He gets the sergeant at the desk to put him through to Nelson. "Tell me what he's like now," he says when Nelson answers.
"Uh…" Nelson starts, like a mental shrug. "I don't know how it's different from before. He's funny, I guess. Knows how to crack a joke. Got the craziest laugh when he lets go."
"Yeah."
"What was he like before?"
Sam throws his arm over his eyes, blocks out the light. "I don't know," he says. "He was my brother." It feels weird and horrible to talk about him in the past tense. "Stubborn and stupid and really annoying. He's a 'shoot first, ask questions later' kind of guy. Screw the consequences. Always gets him in trouble."
Nelson laughs a bit, snuffling into the phone. "He's still like that. Got into it in the bar across the way. The guy was still on crutches, hobbling around. Way it was told later in lock up, he threatened to rip the screw out of his leg and shove it through Joe Don's heart, if he didn't leave Shelly alone."
"What'd he do to his leg? Why does he limp?"
"It happened that night. We don't know what the fight was like, but he came out pretty messed up. Broke his femur, that's what the limp's about. Got that pin in there, holding everything together. Doc doesn't know, but he thinks he might limp for the rest of his life."
That'll slow him down in a fight, is the first thing Sam thinks. If he ever hunts again, is the second.
"Broke his arm too, but that healed pretty quick. We've had someone looking after him," Nelson continues. "Getting him groceries, that kind of thing. I mean, he couldn't get around real well at first and now, with the car gone. It's still easier just to have her do it."
Sam just nods, listening. Not sure what he can say, what'll spill out. He keeps biting back things, mad as hell at Nelson for being there, for telling him about all these things that Sam wishes he'd seen, wishes he'd known about, but he's more grateful than he can say that this town has taken care of Dean. The contradiction's ripping him apart.
"I'm sorry about the car," Nelson says again.
Sam shrugs, even though Nelson can't see him. No use arguing about it, blaming. It sucks to lose the only home he's known, the familiarity of a lifetime. But Bobby's keeping the parts, calling around for others. Dean's rebuilt it before and maybe, maybe he'll be around to do it again. Weighed against getting Dean back, Sam would sacrifice the Impala again, absolutely. "You did what you had to," is all he says.
"Maybe. Why didn't you tell him who you were?"
Sam rubs at his face. He doesn't know why, exactly. Except he does, when he thinks about it. Dean had looked relaxed, carefree, happy, carrying on casual conversation that had nothing to do with ghosts and demons and death. That's all Sam has to offer him, the only life Sam has left. He's never seen Dean like this, not really. Pale imitations of happy, maybe, but nothing genuine, and Sam is not going to be the one to ruin that for Dean. He's not going to be the one to take it all away. "I wanted to," he says finally, quiet and slow. "But he's so different. I didn't want to mess him up."
"Can't be that different," Nelson says. "Has he always liked football?"
"Yeah."
"Poker? Pool? Coke over Pepsi?"
"Yes," Sam says.
"He stops sometimes on the street, carries groceries across for old women, pulls kittens out of trees. Small town hero type stuff. I mean, just ridiculous stuff, because it makes other people happy. Last month, when Justin Gedder got laid off, he and his wife found enough cash in their mailbox to cover their mortgage, their bills for that month, enough left over after that to buy groceries. Now, he's never taken credit for it, but Annie told me she drove him past their house, wouldn't tell her why. He takes care of people, giving back. Has he always been like that?"
Sam thinks back to woods and a campfire, quiet conversation in between racing around the woods after the wendigo. We're doing this for them, Dean told him, pointing at Haley and Ben. "Yeah," he says.
"I guess my point is, he's still who he was."
Sam shakes his head. "But he's not," he says. "He's happy here."
And apparently Nelson doesn't have a reply for that.
---
Nelson brings Sam to breakfast the next morning. Billy's sitting in the booth with Dean, telling a very animated story that Dean seems to find absolutely riveting, for all intents and purposes. He smiles at Nelson but not at Sam, coming up behind. "I'm just about done," Dean says. "I was late yesterday."
Billy slides around the booth, plunks down next to Dean when Nelson motions him to. Dean scoots to make room, shoves some waffles in the kid's direction that Billy starts picking at. Dean's hand rests on the back of the kid's neck, like it just fits there.
Nelson makes the universal sign for coffee at Shelly as he and Sam slide into the opposite side of the booth. "Casey's not going to fire you," Nelson says. "You can be a little late."
Dean scowls at that which, hey, a little weird. Something to ask him about later. "I'd rather not," Dean says.
Nelson glances over at Sam, hasn't said a word since they walked in. Nelson wonders if he's always been this quiet. He's watching Dean intently, looking for differences? Similarities? There's something in his eyes, something quiet and sad and deep. Nelson notices that Dean is carefully (or not so carefully, if Nelson picks up on it) avoiding Sam's gaze.
Billy's mother comes over to get him, he's on his way for a hair cut and a picture for the grandparents, she tells them, plucking him (unresisting, for once) out of the booth on her way to the door. That seems to be Dean's cue because he stands shortly after and with a "see you around" to both of them, heads off to work.
Nelson moves over to the other side of the booth, so it's not weird with him and Sam on the same side, like they're on an early morning date. "I don't know what's up with him, he's not normally like that."
Sam shrugs, picks at Dean's left over waffles. "I wouldn't know," he says.
"You can't-" Nelson starts. Can't what, compare the two? Compare them and find one lacking? Because it's not fair?
"I think I can."
But Nelson's already stopped. None of it is fair. None of it is right. Who is he, really, to tell Sam how he should react to anything? Nelson's never been through this, anything remotely like this. He doesn't have the right. "Sorry," he says. "This is new for me." One for the record books, if you could possibly record something like this.
Sam doesn't look up from the cup of coffee Shelly's placed in front of him. "Me too," he says.
"So," Nelson draws out the word, coughs into his hand. "What other things have you, you know, hunted?"
Sam starts with the wendigo, its long fingers and twisted face, the frantic cries it imitated in the night, how it used to be human years ago. He talks about shtrigas and their long hooded cloaks, the tearing feeling of your soul being sucked out of your body. Werewolves and their incredible strength, the difficulty of finding enough pure silver to make bullets. Demons that will lie right to your face, wearing the skin of a loved one. Ghosts and spirits, their patterns and their anger, all the ways to protect yourself against them, all the ways to put them to rest.
It's clinical and dry the way Sam describes it, like it's all old hat, just another day in the life. Nelson had enough trouble wrapping his mind around a pied piper, enticing the kids off to do God knows what with them in the woods. He can't imagine all this other stuff, all the other things he should be worried about. It makes him panic just thinking about it and he spends a lot of time that day trying not to look into the darkened corners of his office, trying to ignore the hair prickling on his neck.
That night he and Annie have dinner at Dean's. Dean's getting better at timing the rice, the first few times he hadn't left it on long enough: the grains were little hard pellets, sharp enough to cut Nelson's gums on the first bite. It's hard to screw up stir-fry, but Dean manages on occasion. Nelson thinks about getting Dean one of those automatic rice cookers for Christmas, if only to wheedle more dinners out of the deal.
Nelson almost trips over the cat when he grabs a beer out of the fridge. He ends up clutching the counters, leaning around Annie who is carefully chopping green peppers under Dean's strict supervision. Her hair smells fantastic and Nelson's sure he spends a little too much time appreciating it while Annie laughs at his clumsiness. Dean's giving him the older brother stink eye when he leans back.
"I'm thinking," Nelson starts, hoping to distract Dean, "that I might invite Jack, that grad student, to poker on Saturday."
Maybe it's only because he's watching for it, but Dean's face screws up a bit in mild distaste before smoothing out into careful disinterest again. Nelson smiles at Annie's enthusiastic nods. "Why?" Dean asks.
Nelson shrugs, pops off the top of the beer. "He's new in town, needs to start somewhere with his research."
"No memory," Dean says, like it's news or something. "I can't possibly tell him anything useful."
"Actually," Annie says, adding the peppers to the mess already in the pan, "I'd think you'd be perfect. Small town life is all you know. You don't remember cities, you're a blank slate of small town!"
"Maybe. He's just." Dean turns back to the cutting board, fiddles with the knife.
"He's what?" Annie prompts.
"He's just weird, okay?"
Nelson flinches on Sam's behalf. He guesses it would look that way to someone who doesn't understand, doesn't remember. "He's not weird-"
"Dude, he spent all of breakfast yesterday staring at me."
He missed you, Nelson wants to yell at him. And yeah, maybe Sam's a little creepily intense about the whole thing, but Nelson's never lost anyone so maybe that's normal. Dean doesn't remember losing anyone either, who is he to judge? But Sam doesn't want to tell him, and it's another secret to add to the list of things he can't mention in front of Dean, that he knows more of Dean's history than Dean does. It's a burden Nelson doesn't want.
Annie pokes at his frown with one oniony finger, steps back and flicks him with the towel and he jumps, spills his beer all down his shirt. She laughs so hard she falls against him while she's attempting to mop up the beer and Nelson abandons his bad mood for the feel of her shaking with laughter against him. Dean throws his hands up at the pair of them and pokes at the contents of the pan with his spoon.
---
It's another day until Bobby comes into town. Another day of watching Dean from across the diner because Nelson doesn't come that morning to act as a buffer. Sam pushes eggs around on his plate and tries to ignore the sympathetic looks that Shelly and the other waitress give him. There's a kid at Dean's booth again, slightly older but it's a weekend and school's out. She's poured a pile of salt on the table and is making pictures with it while Dean watches.
Dean glances over at him occasionally and maybe Dean used to be easier to read, but he can still tell when Dean's about to look over, the tensing in his shoulders as he swivels his neck. Sam mostly manages to be looking at something else every time but he can tell it's beginning to piss Dean off. Normally something he'd be all for, but it's not even remotely the same.
He rides the wave of melancholy that thought produces until Bobby rolls in, middle of the day, fresh from two days driving.
"You look like shit, kid," Bobby greets him, pulling him into a rough hug.
Sam clings for a moment, unembarrassed. Bobby's the closest thing to a father he has anymore, was pretty close even when John was still around. It doesn't surprise him at all that Bobby lets him hold on, pats him on the back easily, like Sam is still a five year old in need of comfort.
When Sam finally pulls back Bobby doesn't say anything, even when he turns away to scrub at his eyes.
Bobby waits till he turns back around. "So where is he?"
Sam checks his watch, it's after lunch on a Thursday. "Should be at the garage. He works there," answering Bobby's unspoken question. "Local guy got him a job. This town, they're grateful. They've been taking care of him."
"No reason they shouldn't, he saved their asses."
"Not everyone expresses gratitude like this."
"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."
Sam shrugs. He takes Bobby by the garage, stops to let Bobby out so he can go in, buy a quart of oil and get a good look. Sam waits in the car, the longer it takes Dean to associate Bobby with Sam the longer Bobby will get to actually talk to him. He's in there for a while and Dean follows him out to the street, easy smile on his face. Dean claps him on the back as he shakes Bobby's hand. By the time he gets back over to the car, Bobby's pissed, angry and slightly bewildered.
"He looks-"
"Happy. I know."
"I was going to say different. Weird."
Sam laughs, feels it grate in his chest. "Yeah."
"It sure did a number on him."
Sam nods. He had Nelson show him the exact spot on Route 4 that Dean came out of the woods. The trail is more than six months old and he and Bobby spend more time than they'll admit to stumbling around looking for the thing. They find it just as dusk is settling, the light failing. They didn't grab flashlights from the car but Sam has Dean's lighter in his pocket.
It doesn't look anything like he'd expect. The Pied Piper of Hamlin, from the pictures, had looked like a man. A man in tights, sure, but still an average man. This, it might been a man once but it's twisted now, foreign, elongated arms and twisted legs, pointed ears extending above the rounded curve of its skull.
"God, that smells," Bobby gasps, taking loud breaths through his mouth.
"Yeah." Sam kicks at it with his shoe (despite Bobby's protests) and it flops over, face down and Dean's knife, the knife he keeps under his pillow, the knife he never goes anywhere without, is sticking out of the thing's back. Sam doesn’t even have to think about it, he reaches down and pulls the knife out, scrapes pied piper goop off on the ground.
"You'll want to get that disinfected or something."
Sam laughs, twice in one day now. He'd forgotten what the impulse felt like. "I've got bleach at the room," he says.
He starts clearing the underbrush from around the piper and Bobby leans down to help. It's been a wet month in east Texas so Sam's not overly concerned about accidentally starting a forest fire, but they leave a substantial ring of dirt around it just in case. Bobby douses the thing with the gasoline he'd been lugging around and Sam lights it up and they both stand and watch it burn.
"I've got to tell you," Bobby says, eyes on the fire. "I've researched this thing, the piper. All the lore says this memory loss is permanent. Once it hits you it's done, it's over."
"Nelson told me he's remembered some things, that's why they got him the job at the garage."
"You told me what Casey said, about how the kids got their memory back. The lore's not to specific on these things. But I'd say it only had a limited range, wasn't prepared for Dean, used to dealing with kids that don't fight back. Maybe it couldn't get him properly, maybe some of the smaller things have always been there, he just didn't realize it at first. But who he is? Who you are? Those are big things, I don't think they're just gonna shake loose. I just don't want you to get your hopes up."
His hopes. Sam wonders about his hopes. He thinks of Dean's face, talking to Nelson about football, his blush when Shelly brought him the piece of pie that morning, his hand on the kid's neck at breakfast, strong and sure. And all of these things, all of these things done without the desperation, the worry that characterized Dean before. It's just like it was facing the end of Dean's year, willing to give anything for more time. Sam wants, he wants so badly for Dean to be happy, to have peace and rest and maybe this is his chance. "Maybe it's better this way," he says.
"Better? How the hell?"
Sam keeps his eyes on the flames dancing over the piper. "He's happy here, Bobby. You've only seen him for a little bit, I've been watching him for days." Sam's not sure Bobby would have cataloged all the differences he's seen, even given a year. He doesn't expect anyone to understand. "He's given so much, doesn't he deserve this?"
"What about you? What do you deserve?"
Not this, not peace or happiness, but he can't say that to Bobby. He knows what he deserves, what's waiting for him: flames and hellfire. He knows that feeling now. Whatever the demon did to him, good or bad, it marked him for life, and for death. He doesn't answer Bobby, but he doesn't have to.
"God. You're just peas in a pod." Bobby sounds disgusted. "You and your sacrificial lamb of a brother. Too wrapped up in each other to even see daylight. Don't you get it?" He steps closer to Sam, into his face. "You make each other happy. You've been miserable, making yourself sick worrying for him and now you're just going to leave him here?" Bobby crowds closer with each word, by the end he's right in Sam's face, hands gripping his shirt.
Sam tugs at Bobby's wrists, gets right back in Bobby's face. "He doesn't remember me! You said he'd never remember!" He's yelling, it feels so good to yell at Bobby, to yell at anyone because he can't yell at Dean.
"That doesn't mean you leave him." Bobby's quiet again, he lets go of Sam's shirt, smoothes out the wrinkles his fists made.
"He left me first." He feels like a sullen child admitting it, saying it aloud, and it's something he'd only ever tell Bobby.
"Don't play that game. He had no way of knowing what would happen."
"He was just supposed to research, to scout it out. He's the one that ran half-cocked into the woods."
"You'd have done the same damn thing! You know you would have. Coming to this town, seeing those families mourning their kids, tugs at your heartstrings. You'd have done the same damn thing."
"Maybe."
"Don't maybe me, kid. I know you. I know both of you, damn bleeding hearts."
"Then you know, you know he's earned this. What good am I to him here?"
"I don't know anything, except you can't leave him here. This life would drive Dean nuts. Not knowing where you are, if you're okay, he couldn't handle that."
"But-"
"I know he doesn't remember. I'm just saying, he can't be entirely a blank slate. He's gotta be the same, deep down, even if he doesn't know how he got that way. Maybe there's something in him that wants something different."
Sam doesn't reply to that. He and Bobby watch the piper burn down to nothing, a loose pile of ash and burned grass that will grow over come next spring. Sam drives them back into town.
---
Nelson stops by the garage at noon, not a lot of around in the middle of the day. He's brought Dean lunch before, or met him for lunch there when Annie brought something by. Dean likes to keep an eye on things; he sticks around when everyone else leaves.
Nelson's mother pressed fried chicken and potato salad on him when he left the house this morning, more than he'd ever eat and he hates to waste his ma's chicken on the ungrateful losers around the station who make fun of him for still living at home. They sure aren't going to reap the benefits. So he stops by the garage.
Dean's finally mobile enough to get his hands dirty, able to stand long enough to actually fix something. He's tinkering with something on Mrs. Henderson's Camry when Nelson walks up, paper sack of chicken and salad in hand. Dean has a soft spot for his ma's chicken.
"That better be what I think it is," Dean says, sticking his head out from under the hood.
Nelson grins as he shakes the bag. "You know it."
"Awesome." Dean scrubs at his hands with an oily cloth, seems to realize the futility of the gesture and heads over to the sink in the corner.
Nelson reaches out to fiddle with some shop tool but it's oily like everything else and he ends up next to Dean at the sink. "You remember anything new lately?" he asks.
"Nah. Well. I mean, just little stuff still. I had this really huge knife. What the hell I did with it, I don't know."
"Hunting, maybe?" Nelson says. "Like deer."
Dean laughs. "What else would I be hunting?"
You have no idea Nelson thinks. And shudders because thanks to Sam, he does. They've just spread out on the rickety table in the office, chicken and salad and two cans of Coke from the fridge in the back when the bell on door chimes and Sam walks in. Awesome, Nelson thinks. What he says is, "Hey, Jack" and he kicks Dean under the table when Dean groans quietly. "You're like a child," he hisses to Dean.
"Hi," Dean says around a mouthful of food. He kicks back under the table; fucker's wearing his steel-toed shop boots and Nelson yelps.
Sam just waves awkwardly. "Listen," he says. "I was wondering if I could come by sometime, maybe interview you for-"
"I don't think-" Dean starts.
"That would be great!" Nelson says, louder than both of them. He ignores Dean's elbow to his ribs and Sam's slightly uncomfortable stare. "He's here a lot. Or at his apartment a lot. He'll be at his apartment this Saturday, for a poker game. I meant to tell you the next time I saw you. Which is now, I guess." He can feel Dean staring at him and he isn't sure if it's for the word vomit or the invitation. Probably both.
"Yeah, sure," Sam says. "I guess I'll-"
"Bring beer," Dean says.
"Uh, okay then."
Nelson smiles in what he hopes is an encouraging (and not slightly demented) fashion as Sam turns to leave. Dean rounds on him as soon as the door closes, smacks him on the back of the head.
Nelson rubs his head. "What was that for?"
"Why'd you have to invite him?"
"I told you I was going to!"
"I just didn't think it would actually happen!"
"Because I normally suck so hard at follow through?"
"That's what I hear from Annie."
"Dude." It's a low blow. Dean winces like he knows. Nelson wonders what it is about Sam that makes Dean feel like he's backed into a corner, like he needs to swipe out.
"I know, I know. Sorry. Just. He's a freak."
"Cut him some slack. What's your problem anyway? You need more friends. You only hang out with Annie and me."
Dean pushes back from the table, paces behind the counter. The more agitated he gets the more pronounced his limp is, and it's worse now then Nelson's seen it in weeks. "I have friends," he says. "I have friends everywhere I go. The whole fucking town is my friend. I don't pay for half of the things in town, I don't even pay my own fucking rent. I get this paycheck and I have nothing to do with it." He stops pacing to smack his hands down on the counter, stare right at Nelson. "Clearly I have friends."
Nelson just blinks stupidly a few moments. He wasn't expecting anything quite like that. "Well," he says finally, clearing his throat. "One more can't hurt then."
Dean huffs at him, honest-to-God huffs at him before he limps back over to his seat and plops down. "I'm not making any promises," he grumbles.
Nelson throws his paper towel in Dean's face. He grabs it back before Dean can retaliate. "Seriously though," Nelson says. "What is it about Jack specifically? You don't balk at meeting new townspeople."
Dean shrugs, picks at the chicken bones on his plate. "It's the way he looks at me," he says finally. "It makes me feel guilty. Like I did something wrong and don't remember. I don't know." His hands are open, empty, palms up on the table. "He just seems so sad."
Nelson picks at his own chicken and doesn't meet his eyes.
---
Sam wakes up the next morning to pounding on the door. It's so weirdly normal, he can remember many, many times that John woke them up this way on the road, plenty of times Dean has jarred him awake for one reason or another. Bobby's on the other side of the door, holding his bag, keys in his hand.
"Hunt in Mississippi," he says. "Ellen just called."
Sam's already turning from the door. "Let me get my stuff," he says.
"For what?"
He stops, turns back to Bobby. "I'm coming with you."
"Hell you are."
"You shouldn't hunt alone."
"This isn't my first time at the dance, kid. I can take care of myself. It's just a spirit, fuckin' cakewalk. Besides, what'd I say about leaving Dean?"
"But you-"
"Listen. I'm not what he needs, another person he suspects may or many not remember him hanging around town. One guy showing up, flimsy excuse for research, one's easy to explain, but two? Town this size? You stay here. Talk to him. You both need it." Bobby comes closer, lays a hand on Sam's neck. "You're lost without each other, anyone can see."
"Dean's not lost."
"Scratch the surface a little bit."
Sam nods. He's not sure what he'd say if he tried to speak. He likes the idea that this life is perfect for Dean, he wants it to be true. He watches as Bobby walks away.
He sleeps until it's time to get up for the poker game. He sleeps a lot these days, now that the desperate voice in his head telling him find Dean, to find Dean now has finally quieted. He showers, grabs the cleanest thing he can find from his duffel. He picks up a couple of six packs at the corner store on the way to Dean's apartment. It's within walking distance, so he leaves the GTO.
Annie answers his knock; Sam met her in the diner a couple of days ago. He thinks Nelson must have told her at least part of the story because she'd put her hand on his, squeezed a little when she'd introduced herself. He wonders which parts she knows. Tonight there isn't anything in her smile but a welcome and Sam smiles back, steps inside. "I've got things," she says, making big gestures with her hands, towards the kitchen. "I'll send Sam out," she calls over her shoulder.
This is his first time in Dean's apartment, what with Dean avoiding him since he came to town. He isn't entirely sure what he was expecting from it, a place decorated entirely by Dean. A pyramid of beer cans, a black light, velvet posters? Sam looks around and it's… nice. Just that. Framed prints on the wall, matching furniture, a potted plant in the window. Sam feels something brush against his ankles, he looks down to see a cat making figure eights around his feet.
"That's Colt," Dean says, watching from the door.
When no more information is forthcoming, Sam asks, "Where'd you get him?"
"Couple of the kids brought him to me, dirty and banged up. Found him outside the bookstore."
Sam leans down, scratches his fingers around Colt's ears. "Friendly."
Dean eyes his cat. "Not normally."
"Where's everyone else?" The cat flops onto his hand, purring loudly. He laughs, makes cooing noises at him until Dean breaks and comes in the room.
Dean picks Colt up, holds him away from Sam. "Dude, stop. You'll strip him of his manhood."
"He's neutered, right?"
"Yeah?"
"Then, dude, he's already stripped of his manhood."
Dean laughs, easy and comfortable, and Sam doesn't feel like he's crashing the party anymore. "I guess," Dean says. "Anyway. Nelson and Annie are in the kitchen. Annie's got some dip thing. Nelson's got a little crush, so he's 'helping'." Dean makes air quotes. "Steve and Ron couldn't make it." Dean starts flipping through a stack of CDs. After a minute he seems to find what he's looking for, puts in the player. Sam snorts, he'd recognize the Greatest Hits of Journey anywhere.
"What?" Dean asks.
Some things don't change. "Nothing."
"Host picks the music."
Some things really don't change, and maybe Bobby's more right than Sam wants to admit. "Guest shuts his cake hole?"
Dean laughs. "Something like that." He steps over towards the table and starts clearing car parts off it. Sam tries to help but Dean stops him with a hand on his wrist, warm fingers against his skin. What the hell, he thinks, there's a warm rush in his chest and he fights the urge to clamp on to Dean's hand. His heart is pounding. Dean shook his hand before, outside the diner, but this feels different.
"There's an order to these. They have groups," Dean says, like nothing happened and for him, maybe nothing did.
"Sorry."
There's a sideways squint from Dean as he rearranges the parts on the coffee table in front of the massive TV. "It's okay."
"Uh." What do you say, he wonders, to reacquaint yourself with someone you've known all your life. All of Sam's conversation topics are a bust, anything he's thought about recently is finding Dean or hunting.
Dean beats him to it. "So what questions did you want to ask?"
"Questions?"
Dean gives him a look now like he's afraid Sam might actually be mentally impaired. "For your thesis?"
"Oh. Well." He asks the first thing that comes to mind. "Mmm… have you always lived in a small town?"
"I don't know."
Of course Dean doesn't know. "How can you not know?" he asks, just to see what Dean will tell him.
"Can't believe you've been poking around here longer than five minutes and haven't heard through the rumor mill."
"About what? I haven't heard anything."
"Got amnesia," Dean says. He taps his forehead. "Don't remember a thing past waking up in a hospital room seven months ago." He pulls a deck of cards from a side table and sits down at the table, starts shuffling.
"Weird."
"Yeah. I guess." Dean shrugs. "Anyway, I don't see how I can be much help to you."
"No, I guess. It's okay. You can tell me what it's like for you here now. Do you like Jefferson?"
"Don’t have much to compare it to. Nice enough anyway. The people here are ridiculous. Very giving."
"Do you think it would have been different, if you'd been in a city?"
"Don't know. Probably get shoved into a system of some sort, unless I got insanely lucky."
"You've heard of the system?"
"I've got a TV, dude. I watch it occasionally."
"Right. So. You like it here."
"Yeah, and it's been good. I mean, people take care of me, I take care of them, it's been working out, you know?"
Sam smiles. "Yeah, I know."
Dean looks at him, doesn't say anything, just looks at him until Sam squirms a bit. "What?" he asks.
"Nothing," Dean says. "Just. It's the first time I've seen you look happy since you came to town."
His hands are clammy, what the hell. "I. Well." Sam doesn't get to finish whatever sentence he'd been about to stumble his way through, Annie and Nelson choose that moment to come out of the kitchen bearing chips and dip and a round of beers. It's a quarter ante, dollar limit to raise and Sam's never played for such low stakes. He's pretty sure Dean hasn't either and apparently musical taste isn't all that Dean held onto. He steadily wins through the first hour or so, trash talking Nelson who couldn't bluff to save his life, and Annie who doesn't like to trade in cards because she feels sorry for them.
"You feel sorry for them?" Sam laughs.
"I just don't like telling a card it isn't good enough for me!"
"But it isn't!" Dean lays his hand down on the table; he won again, the smug bastard. "You haven't won a thing all night!"
"I did once!"
Nelson flicks his cards at her, they skim across the table. "The rest of us folding because you started purring to your three aces doesn't count."
"I got four quarters out of the deal."
"Three, one of them was yours," Sam says, and Dean nods and points.
"He's totally right," Dean says.
Annie snorts as she gathers the cards, her turn to deal this hand. "Well, whatever. I got the money in the middle and that is winning."
The beer keeps coming, they plow through what Sam brought but it turns out Dean had a stockpile all along and it seems to be never-ending. Everything gets funnier and lighter and the weight Sam's been carrying around, the grief and the pain, it all seems to melt away. He imagined family would be like this, when he was growing up. Sitting around a table, playing games and not cleaning weapons, laughing and teasing and not conjugating Latin verbs. He wonders if he could fit into this picture, Dean and his friends, this small town. If Dean would let him.
---
It's like fitting puzzle pieces together, Nelson thinks. He's never had siblings, just an older sister who was taken by the piper before he was born, so. Not really. He's had friends with siblings and he feels like this isn't all that normal. It's weird watching them. He doesn't even know if they realize, recognize the rhythm they fall into, the back and forth of their comments, their teasing. The look Dean will give Sam right before he says something that has Sam choking beer down over laughter. The way Sam looks to Dean every time when he wins the pot, looking for approval is all Nelson can guess.
Like they've never been apart, like Dean still remembers everything and watching this, Nelson can understand what Sam is missing. He wonders if Dean even realizes it's happening, feels the connection between the two of them, the way they fit together. Looking at Sam, he's pretty sure Sam does.
The end of the night comes some time after the beer finally runs out and Annie's head begins its final slow fall to the table. "So tired," she mutters around something like sixteen yawns. She's spent the night in the guest bedroom before when game night's gone this long and they've depleted the entire stockpile so Nelson helps her up from the table, gently steers her in that direction. She stops halfway there, hand on his face. "You're nice," she says, smiling. She reaches up on her tiptoes, kisses him soft and slow.
All he can say, think, is "Uhhh." She pats his cheek and steps into the room, leaving him staring at the door.
Dean's too drunk to do anything but smile at him when he turns around, back into the living room. "Nelson and Annie, sitting in a tree..." he starts and Sam, who slithered off his chair ten minutes ago and is sprawled on the floor on the other side of the table, joins in. Nelson's pretty used to the drunk wrangling job and he mostly doesn't mind it. He's just glad he doesn't have to book any of them. Paperwork sucks.
"C'mon, Jack, let's get you home." He tugs on Sam's arms, pulls him into a sitting position. There's no way in hell he'll get him standing if Sam doesn't help at least a little.
"Got it," Sam says. He gets his feet under him, pushes when Nelson pulls and looks bewildered a few seconds later when he's on his feet. "Whoa."
"Air's thin up there, isn't it?" Dean says, laughing at his own joke. Sam nods.
Nelson props Sam against the wall for a minute and turns to Dean. "I'll make sure he doesn't trip on something and die," Nelson says. "You good here?"
"I think I can find my bed, yes." Dean stands a little unsteadily, leans against the wall on his way to his room.
"C'mon, dude," Nelson says, tugging him away from the wall, through the front door. "I'll walk you home."
"Worried about my virtue?" Sam leans against the railing outside and Nelson keeps an eye on him as he locks Dean's door.
"Just about you tripping over your own gigantic feet and cracking your skull open," Nelson says cheerfully, reaching out to take Sam's arm.
They start down the sidewalk, it really isn't far to the bed and breakfast. "I don't. I can walk fine." Sam pulls away for a minute to prove it, placing each foot with exaggerated care.
"Yeah, you're doing great."
Sam stops for a minute, looks back at the still lit windows of Dean's apartment. "Have he and Annie ever...?"
"What? No!" Nelson's perhaps a little too forceful. "Just. No. They're just, well, friends I guess. I mean, she's paid to do things like grocery runs but she comes over for poker on her own."
Sam nods, hair flopping over his forehead. He starts walking again.
It's gearing up toward summer, the night wind's warmer than it has been all season and Nelson can't wait; he loves summers in Texas. He's convinced you haven't really lived until you've cooked an egg on the sidewalk. They're almost to the driveway of the B&B now, Nelson's hand on Sam's back, guiding him along. He almost doesn't hear Sam's question.
"Has he?"
"What?"
"With anyone?"
"You mean dated?"
Sam nods.
"No. Not that I've seen, and I see him almost every day. He was pretty banged up for a while and just, hasn't seemed interested since. He's pretty oblivious about everything. Not that there's any lack of willing volunteers. Shelly, for instance."
"He likes her pie."
Nelson laughs. "Sure seems to."
Sam stops again, in the driveway. He inspects the moon, the stars, the shadows cast by the lone street light on the block. "He wasn't like that before. He noticed everyone."
"He seemed like that kind of guy, the two days I saw him before this happened."
"I wonder what..." Sam trails off.
Nelson wonders too, how much your environment can change who you are, how some things can be exactly the same and others not. "It's not something he talks about, really. Not something we've talked about." They're moving again, up to the door. The Greers give the guests a key to the front door, so they can come in after hours. No sense locking out your customers, Mrs. Greer says, and she doesn't want to impose a curfew. Still, Sam's way too drunk to figure out two keys, and he shoves them at Nelson after a minute of fumbling. "You hold up the wall," Nelson says, and chuckles when Sam seemingly applies himself seriously to the job.
"He never was one for talking," Sam says as he presses back against the side of the house. "Except when he was. He liked to pretend."
Nelson's sure that made perfect sense to Sam.
He gets the door open, ushers Sam inside (the wall's fine now, good job) and up the stairs to his room. It's just as neat as it was the day he checked in, Sam clothes carefully folded on top of the small chest at the foot of the bed. "You normally this eerily clean?"
Sam nods. "Dean's the messy one."
For a moment, as he's untying Sam's boots, making sure he's got a trashcan next to the bed, Nelson wonders about them. Brothers versus brothers. It's not something he's entirely unfamiliar with, even in this backwoods town. He's got a cousin on his father's side who moved up to Massachusetts to marry another dude and Nelson has always figured God had bigger fish to fry. What with spirits and ghosts and demons they're chasing after, he's not going to give Sam and Dean any crap about it.
But it seems to fit, now that he thinks about it. Sam's desperation, the shattered way he looked when he came into town. The way he's been following Dean around ever since, just on the periphery of Dean's awareness, even when Dean didn't want him there. God, the way he'd looked tonight when Dean laughed at his jokes, smirked at him, like that much from Dean was all he needed in life.
Maybe it's not normal for brothers to be wrapped up in each other. Maybe that's not what they are.
It's all a little much to think about now and Nelson's too drunk for it anyway. But still, he has a feeling, and he thinks he knows what Dean's been waiting for.
---
It hurts to open his eyes the next morning. Sam hasn't let himself go like that in a while, definitely not since long before Dean left and he's not used to it at all. He drags himself out of bed, brushes the taste of ass from his mouth. He showers quickly and dresses and heads for the diner, hoping Dean will be there.
He is, and Dean nods Sam over to his table as soon as he walks in. It's a Sunday so Dean doesn't have work and Sam doesn't have anything so they sit and stare blearily at each other over their pancakes. It's the Winchester hangover special, but Dean wouldn't remember that. Sam thinks he should maybe stop keeping score.
Dean drinks as much water as he does coffee. "My liver is very unhappy," he explains.
Sam's hands shake as he forks bites of pancake into his mouth. He holds one out for Dean to inspect. "I think my arms are still drunk."
Dean laughs but then winces like it pains him. Sam pulls out the bottle of aspirin he brought along to breakfast. "Need some?"
"I've already taken six, I guess two more couldn't hurt."
"Where's Annie?"
"Went home. Not interested in food yet, I think."
They don't talk much after that, both content to sit and let the aspirin and starch work their magic. It's a companionable kind of silence, one that Sam doesn't feel the need to fill with chatter and noise. His headache agrees with him. It's a silence he's comfortable with.
They're just pushing empty plates toward the middle of the table when a kid from a nearby table wanders over. She climbs up into the booth next to Dean, tucks herself into his side. "Lizzie," Dean says. "Jack. Jack, Lizzie."
Sam smiles at the girl and she smiles back, shyly, and presses her face into Dean's arm. "You seem to know a lot of the kids in town," Sam says.
"They're the ones that found me," Dean explains. "Stayed with me until the cops came."
"All of them at once?"
Dean shrugs. "Guess they were out on a nature hike or something."
Sam nods as if that were remotely possible. If Dean hasn't put too much thought into why a group of children were wandering around Route 4 in the middle of the night, he's not going to push it.
Dean yawns again and Sam (because that shit's contagious) yawns too. "I think my liver is now demanding sleep to function," Dean says, rubbing his stomach.
"That's not where your liver is."
"It's where it hurts."
Sam can't argue with that logic. Dean sends Lizzie back over to her parents, who smile and wave. Sam's found that when you eat with Dean, you don't have to pay either, so they just stand and leave, though Dean has to stop on the way out and say hello and shake some hands and introduce Sam a couple of times.
They're both headed in the same direction; Sam slows down a little to accommodate Dean's pace. Dean brushes up against him occasionally, following the rhythm of his stride and Sam figures out when it's coming but he doesn't move away. He's hyperaware of his entire left side, every inch of skin that touches Dean's. Their fingers brush together couple of times and Sam's thinking it's not accidental. He's not sure what to do with that.
"Does it hurt?" he asks, pointing at Dean's leg.
"Not much anymore. Physical therapy kind of sucked but it's mostly fine now."
Sam nods and they're quiet for most of rest of the walk. Sam thinks he can count on one hand the number of unhurried, mostly pleasant (if he wasn't so hung-over) walks he's been on his lifetime. The pace of their real lives is so much more frenetic and frenzied, timed to lunar cycles and spells and the number of hours it takes to get from one state to another without using major highways. Sam thinks he could get used to this, and then he thinks it might be useless to.
"Listen," Dean says as they're about to part ways. He touches Sam's wrist, just under the cuff of his shirt. "Come over for dinner. You can ask more questions."
"Annie gonna make something?"
Whatever look Dean's giving him is lost behind the sunglasses. "Dude, I can cook. I'll make something. It'll just be us, Nelson works a weird schedule on Sundays. Annie's got church."
"Yeah, sure." He's not sure how this is going to go without a buffer, and he should probably come up with some questions to ask. But he walks away lighter than he's felt in months.
part three