Work Text:
It’s a beautiful service. The church has large stained glass windows and the sun is shining through them just right, sending beams down onto the flowers at the base of the pulpit.
Sam tries to focus on the colors filtering through the windows as the loud rush of blood in his ears dulls the Father’s words. He can feel the tension in his body building. He squeezes his hands together, bites the inside of his cheek, does anything he can to keep his movements contained.
“Praise be to the God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion, and the God of all comforts...”
Sam jerks his chin over to his left shoulder three times and grimaces as the sharp movement causes his neck to ache. He squeezes is eyes shut, rolls his lips in and presses them together. The rushing in his ears gets louder and he can still feel the crescendo building and building. His body is a ticking time bomb, and the longer the fuse, the more explosive it becomes.
“We’ve come together today to say farewell to the loving wife and mother…”
Sam feels Dean’s hand squeeze his leg and he squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to breathe, to relax, to focus on anything but the building pressure inside him, but he knows he can’t hold it in much longer. The rushing in his ears gets even louder and the heel of his hand comes up to hit his jaw, pushing his head to the side.
“She was a fighter, a protector, and though she may not be with us here anymore, we find comfort in knowing—”
Sam’s head yanks back and he lets out a guttural noise before he brings his head down sharply to his shoulder again, this time the movement quick enough to cause his head to spin momentarily from the whiplash. He can feel eyes shift in his direction, hears the uncomfortable mutters of those seated in the pews.
"Let us pray,” the priest continues. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name.”
Sam juts his chin forward and lets out another grunt as he tries to bow his head. And the he explodes.
“Fuck!” It comes out in rush and he purses his lips together as quickly as he can, slaps a hand over his mouth. All the sound in the room seems to snap back with full force and he sees heads rise and look in his direction. “Fucking—” His voice cuts off as he sharply pulls his head to his shoulder again, juts his chin forward and grunts.
John, who has kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and done his best to ignore his son’s outbursts up until now, cuts a sharp look in his direction. The look burns right through him, the shame and embarrassment of it all making it even harder to keep a lid on his movements.
Sam opens his mouth to whisper an apology but a tic causes him to quickly shut it again with a click of his teeth. Open, shut, open, shut, open, shut—he can’t seem to stop it. Dean’s hand is on his bicep now and before Sam has a chance to protest, Dean’s standing up and pulling Sam along with him. Dean leads him down the center aisle, dodges Sam’s elbow as he jerks it back several times, and pulls him out the back doors of the church. He keeps his hold on Sam until they’re in the middle of the parking lot, then he lets go and takes a few steps back.
Sam sees him pinch the bridge of his nose before the tics take over again. He lets out a shout. Hand to chin, chin to shoulder, head back, “Fuck!” another shout, elbow jerk, grunt. “I’m—fuck!—I’m sorry, Dean.” Elbow jerk, chin to shoulder. “I tried.” He purses his lips again, grunts as his chin jerks forward, then grimaces.
Dean drops his hand down to his side. “I know, kiddo.”
Sam sags against the nearest car and grabs the legs of his pants, fists a bundle of fabric in each hand and takes a deep breath to try and steady himself. This is what happens when he tries to hold his tics in; they just come out even more violent than before.
Dean gives Sam a once over, watches as he takes in deep breaths. He’s got his eyes squeezed firmly shut, and when he opens them again, Dean sees him take a longing glance over at the doors of the church.
“Want to try and go back in?” Dean asks.
Sam’s elbow jerks back then, connecting sharply with the frame of the car he’s leaning on and he lets out a hiss. He plants his eyes on the ground. “I can’t. I can’t ruin her funeral, too.”
“Hey,” Dean says, walking over to put a hand on the back of Sam’s neck. He pulls him close and Sam finds his head resting against Dean’s chest. “You didn’t ruin anything. You never have.”
“Try telling that to Dad.”
“Fuck him.”
Sam scoffs. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yeah, well.” Dean ruffles Sam’s hair in exactly the way he knows he hates, and Sam pushes away. “Come on,” he says, a ghost of a smile spreading on his lips. “Let’s go back in. At least say goodbye one last time.”
Sam nods, but a thick wave of anxiety begins to wash over him. Everyone’s going to be staring at him and talking about him and what if—
He starts to tic again, this time alternating between opening and closing his hands into fists and hitting his thigh.
“Take some more deep breaths, Sammy,” Dean says, the recognizing the telltale signs of that his brother was getting uneasy. “It’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. Deep breaths. He can do this. “Yeah, okay.”
Sam manages to get through the rest of the service without shouting. Still, he sits on his hands and refuses to go back to his seat in the front row, so he and Dean settle in the back. He feels drained, wishes more than anything that his mom was still here. She never made him feel different or looked at him eyes filled with pure disappointment the way that Dad manages to do.
Sam doesn’t move when the service is over, sits frozen as they carry the casket out. People begin to leave, offering their condolences as they pass by and Dean stands up and shakes hands, thanks them for coming. He slouches back down next to him after the last guest has left. Somewhere near the front Dad is talking to Ellen, one hand in his pocket as the other rubs roughly over his face. Sam watches Ellen place her hand reassuringly on his arm.
Sam thinks he's going to be sick.
He feels tension build in his neck again and he jerks his head back, then down to his shoulder. He pulls his elbow back and shakes his whole body. Mom always called that tic The Wet Dog. The thought makes Sam smile softly to himself, and then it all seems to hit him at once: Mom’s gone.
She’s really gone.
The tears that come don’t stop his body from ticking, but Dean holds him anyway, and if an elbow catches him in the ribs, he doesn’t let on, just holds him tighter than ever.
***
Three days later they’re in Mom’s room with half-packed boxes scattered around piles of books and blankets and crumpled magazines. Dean goes to the window to pull back the curtains and let some light in while they work at clearing out the room. Sam flashes back to the church, to the light filtering in from the windows, to the flowers resting at the pulpit. Sam had taken one before they left and placed it in a small cup of water but it wilted anyway. Figures.
“Hey, look at this.”
Dean’s voice snaps him back to the present and Sam glances up to see him holding a crumpled picture of the three of them, Dad nowhere to be found as usual, in their grandparent’s backyard. He smiles. “Must have—” He jolts his head back, temporarily cutting off his words. “—been that one summer we spent at Grandma and Grandpa’s.”
“Yeah.” Dean smiles. “Remember that tree house Grandpa built for us? Mom could barely get you to come out to eat dinner.”
“Guess that was before Dad came and made us pack up again. They got into a huge fight.”
Dean’s face falls slightly and he puts the picture in one of the boxes. “Yeah. I remember.”
“Sorry,” Sam says. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“It’s all right. I guess I tried to block that part of the memory out,” Dean replies.
Sam is silent for a moment. He thinks back to that summer. He remembers it as some of the happiest weeks of his life. They didn’t really get to see their grandparents much after that. Mom used to try and plan more frequent trips down to see them but Dad always came up with a reason that they couldn’t go. “Do you think he’s coming back?”
Dean sighs, picks up a few old magazines and puts them in the trash pile. “He always does.”
“But it’s different this time,” Sam says, and the phrase ‘because Mom is gone’ hangs unspoken between them. Mom always balanced Dad out. Where he was all blunt edges and shoot first, ask questions later, she was soft and understanding, wise and deliberate. Mom was good for him, was good to him, and it always made Sam wonder how she fell for a guy like Dad. (He’d asked her once, and she just looked down at him and smiled. “Believe it or not, your dad used to be a lot like you. Now go wash up for dinner.”)
Dean picks up another photo, only this time he folds it and puts it in his pocket. Sam is about to ask what it is when Dean says, “Dad just needs to clear his head. Maybe a hunt will be good for him.”
“Yeah, maybe it will.” Sam doesn’t believe it for a second, and a feeling of dread settles deep in his chest. He hits at it with the heel of his palm three times, jerks his elbow back and hits his chest again. It hurts, but the tic is a welcomed distraction from the overwhelming feeling that something bad was about to happen, that it was bubbling just underneath the surface and only a matter of time before it all boiled over. He has the impulse to punch the wall but quickly shoves his hands in his pockets to keep himself from doing so. “I—fuck!—I need some—” three strikes to the chest “—air,” he finally manages to get out, and then he’s fumbling out the door, worry causing his tics to ignite in full swing.
“Don’t wander too far!” Dean calls after him.
Sam’s distant “Fuck!” is the only response he gets before the door is slamming shut.
***
A week later and Dad still hasn’t come home yet. Dean hasn’t said it, but Sam knows he’s starting to get worried too. He’d called Ellen, then Bobby and Pastor Jim, and when none of them had heard anything he started calling the people in one of Dad’s old hunting journals that he found in one of the piles of books in Mom’s room. Dean is sitting at the kitchen table, the first three names on his list to call already marked out, when Sam walks in and pulls an old box of cereal off the top of the fridge. He opens it and begins pouring it directly into his mouth.
“Hey Neanderthal, we do have bowls, you know.”
Sam shrugs, then tics, arm jerking in a way that almost sends the cereal flying out over the floor.
“See,” Dean says, pointing the pen in his hand at Sam. “That, is why we use bowls.”
Sam gives him the finger but gets a bowl anyway. He uses the last of the milk, grabs a spoon from the drawer, and sits down at the table. “Any luck with Dad?"
Dean sighs. “Not yet. No one’s heard from him since the funeral.”
Sam taps his spoon against the bowl, suddenly not so hungry. “You don’t think—fuck—you don’t think he’s going after the demon, do you?”
The demon Sam’s talking about almost killed Mom just after Sam was born. It had pinned her to the ceiling and cut her up pretty badly when Dad came busting through the door. The demon vanished in a cloud of smoke after that, and ever since Dad had been on a mission to find and kill it. Said he had a feeling that it had unfinished plans and if he didn’t get to it first, it was going to come back and finish whatever it had started. He would disappear for days at a time chasing down leads, but always just seemed to come back bloody and empty handed.
“That’s a suicide mission and he knows it. He wouldn’t be that stupid,” Dean says.
“Something’s wrong, Dean. He’s never been gone for this lo—” Sam drops his spoon and whips his head forward, hand coming up just in time to soften the blow of hitting the table. “Shit.”
Dean gives a sympathetic grimace and reaches out to push Sam’s bowl of cereal further back on the table so that he doesn’t get a hair full of milk next time he tics, which is all of three seconds later.
“Thanks.” Sam rubs the back of his neck. He tries not to let on how much it hurts when he jerks his head, but he could never really fool Dean. He’s always seen right through him.
“Did you take your meds this morning?” Dean knows Sam doesn't like taking his meds. They make him feel foggy and sick to his stomach, but without them Sam’s tics seem to completely take over.
“Fucking—fuck—” Sam jerks his chin over to his shoulder enough times to send another shooting pain up his neck before the tic finally stops. He bangs a frustrated fist down on the table (because Jesus why won't his body just do want he wants it to for once) before scooting his chair back and standing up. It's taking everything in him not to scream. “We can’t just sit here and hope Dad shows back up,” he says instead, mindfully avoiding Dean's question.
Dean leans back in his chair, takes in the sight of his twitching brother in front of him. He’s moving like hadn’t taken his meds this morning, movements more sporadic and pointed, but that could also be because he’s restless with Dad being missing. It was hard to tell sometimes what was just Sam and what was his Tourette’s.
For a moment Dean is tempted to go to the cabinet and make a show of pouring Sam’s meds out and counting them to see if he’s been taking them regularly, but the kid is almost 18 now and soon it’s not going to be up to him or Dad to force him to take them. So instead he says, “You up for a hunt?”
Sam stops ticking momentarily and looks at him with disbelief. He hadn’t been on a hunt since he’d ticked while handing Dean a flair gun in the middle of a showdown and burned his hand pretty bad. Dean didn’t blame Sam, but Dad had yelled at him something fierce and hadn’t let Sam come on a hunt since. Sam’s a bit older now, but his tics haven’t settled down any despite the countless medications and therapies they’ve tried. But Dean knew Sam was right. He was running into dead ends at every turn and they couldn’t just sit here and wait; they had to do something.
“You mean—fuck—you’re going to take me with you?” Sam’s leaning against the counter, fingers rhythmically tapping against its surface in groups of three.
“You’re not a little kid anymore. It’s about time you jumped back on the saddle.”
“But I’m a liability,” Sam rebuts. “Last time you—”
“Yeah I know what happened last time, Sam. But like I said, you’re older now. We know what we’re dealing with.” He makes a broad sweeping motion towards Sam. “We’ll handle it.”
“Are you sure?” And just to double check, his Tourette’s decides to take over in that moment and he hits his chest so hard he loses his breath, chin jutting forward with a grunt.
“Yeah,” Dean says as he closes the journal and stands up. “Besides, who else is going to help me figure all this shit out?” He holds Dad’s messy journal up.
Sam looks smug. “So you finally admit that I’m the smart one.”
It’s Dean who flips Sam off this time. “Shut up,” he says, turning to walk out of the kitchen. “And go take your meds!”
***
They spend the next day finishing up packing Mom’s room and the rest of their valuables before driving it all over to Dad’s old storage unit. The only reason they’d stayed in that house for so long was because Mom had gotten sick, and now that she’s not here, there’s no telling if or when they’ll be coming back.
“You ready?” Dean asks as he throws the last of their bags in the trunk along with a few weapons he’d picked up from storage.
Sam is standing next to the Impala and looking back at their house.
“We’ll be back, Sam,” Dean reassures. “After we find him.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, even though they both know there’s no way of saying for sure.
“You got your meds?”
Sam rolls his eyes and points to his black medicine bag in the back seat.
“Good. Then let’s go.”
When they drive away, Sam is grateful when Dean cranks up the music loud enough to drown out his tics, and he rests his head against the window and lets the rumble of the engine and rifts of the guitars lull him to sleep.
***
He wakes up a few hours later when Dean pulls into a truck stop somewhere in Nebraska. The sky has turned an eerie gray and Sam can hear thunder rolling in the distance. Dean, who was standing outside pumping gas, sticks his head through the window when he sees Sam stir. “Heya, Sleeping Beauty!” he says obnoxiously loud.
Sam groans. His neck is stiff from the angle his head was resting against the window. He twitches in the middle of trying to stretch it out and the pain that radiates down his neck is piercing. His stomach lurches, and he barely opens the door in time before he’s throwing up, bile burning the back of his throat.
“Shit,” Dean says, standing back upright and walking around to Sam’s side of the car. “A few seconds slower and you’d be walking back to Kansas,” Dean announces in a not-so-subtle tone of relief. “No one pukes on my baby.” He pats the Impala’s frame gingerly.
Sam spits, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Glad to know your priorities are in order.”
Dean grabs a bottle of water from the backseat and hands it to Sam, who uses it to rinse out his mouth. “You all right?” he asks in all sincerity.
“Yeah.” Sam spits again, and his hand clenches hard enough to squeeze out most of the water left in the bottle. He tosses it onto the ground in frustration.
“Relax, Sammy,” Dean says gently, noting the tension that’s beginning to build up in Sam’s body.
“I’m just so goddam—” Sam’s head jerks back mid-sentence and he grunts, juts his chin forwards before snapping it over to his shoulder. “Forget it. Let’s just go.”
Dean nods. “Whatever you want, kiddo.” He grabs another bottle of water from the back and hands it to Sam before hopping back into the driver’s seat. “Just a few more hours ‘til we get to Bobby’s. We can stop there for a while.”
“Mmm.”
The engine rumbles as it turns over and starts, and this time Sam is grateful when Dean keeps the radio volume low—his head already beginning to throb. Thunder roars off in the distance again, and Sam closes his eyes and waits for sleep to come.
***
It rains the rest of the way to Souix Falls. When they get to Bobby’s, Sam barely manages to stumble through the door and up the steps before he collapses on the nearest bed.
“Rough day?” Bobby asks Dean as he helps him lug in their bags from the car.
“Rough year,” Dean responds. He drops the last bag near the couch before sinking down into the worn cushions. Bobby pours him a glass of whiskey and he takes it welcomingly.
“What’s going on with you boys?” Bobby settles in a wooden chair next to a table piled high with books.
“I’m running out of options here, Bobby,” Dean says, letting out a long sigh. “Dad took off right after the funeral and I’ve chased every lead I could find and I've come up with nothing. And Sam, he’s…” Dean doesn’t know how to finish that sentence and ends up just making a broad gesture towards the staircase Sam staggered up when they arrived.
Bobby sips on his whiskey slowly, leans back in his chair. He looks deep in thought, ideas turning over in his head. “Let me show you something,” he says after a while and swallows the rest of his drink in one large gulp. “After you called I did some digging.” Dean follows him over to his desk where there’s a large map rolled out. Several cities are circled, and pinned to them are several newspaper clippings about violent storms.
Dean studies the map for a moment, then asks, “What exactly am I looking at?”
“Omens,” Bobby responds plainly. He points to each one. “Can’t seem to find a link to the cities other than they’re all connected by the same railroad track and are exactly 25 miles from this center point.” He places his finger on a town in Wyoming. “It’s like the demons are circling, trying to get in. But here’s the real kicker.” Bobby picks up a pen and connects the cities, forming a star inside a circle—a perfect Devi’s trap.
Dean curses under his breath and steps away from the desk. “You think Dad knows about this?”
“I don’t know, son,” Bobby replies, “but if I was looking for a powerful demon, I’d sure as hell follow the omens.”
“That son of a bitch,” Dean mutters. “He has no fucking idea what he’s walking into. He’s going to get himself killed.”
Bobby walks back over to the table and starts to pour them both another glass of whiskey. “Not if we get to him first.”
***
Dean wakes up on the couch with one of Bobby’s books about demonic omens stuck to his face. The thing is so old and bulky he’s grateful he didn’t suffocate to death in his sleep. He groans, body feeling tired and achy from spending the night on the worn couch, and slowly rolls over to bring himself into a sitting position.
A thud comes from the kitchen, and Dean looks over to see Sam standing at the counter, fumbling with something Dean can’t quite see. He’s ticking pretty bad—probably what the thud was from—and Dean can see him becoming more and more aggitated.
“Fuck!” Sam’s head jerks back and he drops the black bag in his hand. He’d managed to unzip it just enough that when it hits the floor his pill bottles scatter in every direction. Dean watches as Sam jerks and twitches, his tics preventing him from reaching down and picking up his meds right away. Eventually he’s able to crouch down and reach the first bottle. He’s twitching too much to open it though, arms jerking every time he manages to wrap his hands around the lid.
God, this kid. He hasn’t had a morning this bad in a while, but from the way Sam was last night he should have known this was coming.
Dean shakes the fog of sleep from his head and walks over to where Sam has slid down to the floor, back against the cabinets. “Mornin’,” he says roughly, sliding down beside his brother. He reaches out for the bottle in Sam’s hand, waits for Sam’s hand to unclench before he opens it for him. He shakes a pill out into his palm and holds it out, and Sam manages to grab it and swallow it down in between tics.
“Th—than—” he tries, but speaking isn’t quite doable just yet.
Dean reaches for the other pill bottles that slid across the floor and repeats the same routine until Sam’s successfully downed his morning round of meds. “Don’t mention it,” he says as he places the pill bottles back in Sam’s medicine bag and puts it up on the counter. “You been this bad all night?”
Sam nods.
“Shit,” Dean sighs. “I’m sorry, Sammy. Should’ve came and checked on you.”
“Not—not your—fuck!—fault,” Sam manages in response.
Dean watches as Sam starts to slam his hand repeatedly against the floor, jerks his elbow, then goes back to hitting the floor. He slides his shirt off and gives it to him to wrap around his hand to help soften the impact. “So Bobby and I think we figured out where Dad went,” Dean starts.
“Oh y-yeah?”
“Yeah,” Dean echos. “Wisconsin. There’s these omens that have been happening there. I mean, we don’t know for sure, but we think you were right. He’s probably gone after the demon that hurt Mom.”
“Fuck.” Sam’s hitting tic finally stops and he cradles his T-shirt-wrapped hand against his chest. “When do we head out?”
Dean lets out a long breath. “Maybe… Maybe you should sit this one out, yeah?” He looks over at his brother to gauge his response, but Sam’s face is twisted into a grimace as he starts hitting the floor again. “I'm sorry, kid. We can go see the doctor again,” Dean offers. “Maybe it’s time for your doses to change again.”
Sam stays quiet, but the intensity with which he hits the floor increases. Hit, hit, elbow jerk, head snap, hit, hit, hit, hit hit hit—
“I ca—” head snap, hit “I can’t fu—fuck!—fucking stop them.” Elbow jerk, head snap, hit, hit.
Dean can’t remember the last time he’s seen Sam this bad. It reminds him of the time Sam was first officially diagnosed and put on a slew of medications to help with the tics and anxiety disorder that they learned tends to accompany Tourette’s. And to think they’d all thought Sam was just a fidgety kid all that time.
Sam lets out a yell and hits the floor so hard Dean swears he could hear a bone crack.
Dean cringes. God, the things this kid has to go through. He stands up, then reaches down to hoist Sam up to his feet. He half walks, half drags him over to the couch. At least there the cushions will soften the impact. Sam’s hand is already starting to swell and turn shades of blue and purple. Dean gets Sam settled and then goes back to the kitchen to fill a bag with ice.
Sam’s body doesn’t slow down until nearly an hour later, the meds fully hitting his system and causing his eyes to begin to droop. Dean sits on the floor next to the couch until Sam falls asleep.
***
“Sammy’s getting worse,” Dean tells Bobby later that afternoon.
“Poor kid,” Bobby sighs, looking over to where Sam is still drifting in and out of sleep on the couch. “That hand looks broken.”
“I know.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “He doesn’t want to go to the ER. He thinks they’ll tie him down to the bed or take him away or some shit.” When Sam’s tics get bad and his body starts to wear down, his anxiety always seems to spike. “Like I’d ever let some doc lay one hand on my brother without my permission.”
“Yeah, well,” Bobby responds, “John is one son of a bitch for taking off at a time like this. You shouldn’t have to take on all of this by yourself.”
“What am I supposed to do here, Bobby? I can’t take care of Sam and go after my dad.” Dean’s just about out of ideas.
Bobby is about to respond when they hear Sam groan loudly. He’s awake again, and if the way he’s clasping his hand is any indication, he’s in a fair bit of pain. Dean walks over and crouches down in front of him. “How ya doin’, Sammy?”
Sam’s elbow jerks, jarring his injured hand, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Fucking peachy.” The pain is making him nauseous, and he purses his lips together to keep from throwing up all over the floor.
“You ready to get that hand checked out?” Dean tries.
Sam shakes his head firmly. “No. No I’m fine.”
“Sam—”
“We don’t have time, Dean!” Sam interrupts. “We’ve got to find Dad. I’m fine. I can handle it.” The last part is a complete lie, but he’s not going to the hospital. He can’t. They’ll just think he’s crazy and lock him away and—
“Sam!” Dean says firmly, breaking Sam’s train of thought. “Breathe, man. Come on.” The last thing Sam needs is to have a panic attack on top of everything else. “No one’s locking you away. They’re just going to check out your hand, fix you up with a cast, and send you on your way with some heavy-duty painkillers. That’s it.”
Bobby walks over then, fresh bag of ice and a couple of aspirin in his hand. “This can only cut it for so long, son,” he says as Sam swallows the pills dry and places the ice over his battered hand. “Don’t worry about your dad. I got it covered.”
Dean looks over at Bobby and raises an eyebrow, and Bobby gives him a nod. Dean has never felt more relieved.
***
A few hours later, Bobby takes off for Wisconsin and Dean packs Sam in the car and heads for the hospital. When they get there, Sam is ticking so unpredictably that they have to sedate him just to get an x-ray. Thankfully he doesn’t need surgery to reset it, and they’re able to fit him what a thick black cast while he’s still under.
Dean is able to bring him home a few hours later. Sam sleeps off the rest of the meds on Bobby’s couch while Dean rummages through the kitchen to throw together some soup. It actually turns out pretty good, and Sam manages to eat a whole bowl and keep it down so Dean will count that as a win.
He puts in an old western flick and they both try to unwind a bit as the sun starts to go down. It’s been a long day, and there’s not much they can do now but sit and wait to hear back from Bobby. Sam lets out a laugh at one the God-awful special effects, and Dean smiles and lets himself relax for the first time in days.
***
Bobby and Rufus drag a bloody and beaten John Winchester through the door in the middle of the night three days later. He spikes a pretty high fever and they spend the next few days cleaning out wounds and covering him in cool washcloths until it breaks. It takes him over a week just to get back on his feet again.
It’s not long after that that Dean finds him packing up his truck in the early hours of the morning.
“I’ve got to finish it, Dean,” John says when Dean walks out to where his truck is parked in the yard. “I can’t just let it go, not after your mom—.” He stops there, can’t bring himself to finish that sentence.
“I know,” Dean says. He looks down to the ground and shuffles some rocks around with his boot.
“Sam’ll come around,” John says, and Dean just scoffs.
“He has fucking Tourette’s, Dad. There’s no ‘coming around’ from that.”
John sighs. “I know. I know.” He pauses, scratches at his beard. “You know I’ve never been able to connect with him like you do, son.” Dean looks at him in silence, face stony as John finally admits, “I can’t take care of him. Mary was always the one who took care of you boys best.”
And there it is.
“You know you always were more like your mother,” John keeps going, and Dean has just about had it.
“Don’t you fucking dare. You don’t even know the first thing about us,” Dean spits. “You go do what you gotta do and I’ll be here to pick up the pieces like always.” Before he even really thinks about it, he finds himself turning and walking away.
“Dean, wait,” John calls after him, and Dean stops but refuses to turn around and look at him. “I will have completely failed you both as a father if you turn out anything like me."
It should make Dean feel better, but it only makes him angrier. “Well you did a pretty fucking good job of never giving us the chance.” He walks up the steps to Bobby’s house and slams the door shut without so much as a glance back. He closes his eyes and leans against the frame, listens as Dad’s truck rumbles to life and then fades off into the distance. When he opens his eyes again, he sees Sam looking out the window to the spot where Dad’s truck was parked just seconds before.
“He’s not coming back this time, is he?” he asks.
Dean walks over, ruffles Sam’s hair, and Sam actually leans in to the touch. “Looks like it’s just us for a while, Sammy. You all right with that?”
“Yeah,” he says, then pushes his brother away with a faint smile. “And it’s Sam.”
***
Dean wakes up to the scent of bacon, and the smell reminds him of home.
Sam looks over from his position over the stove when he notices Dean rouse and shouts all too excitedly, “Rise and shine! I’m making breakfast!”
“So I see,” Dean says, voice rough with sleep.
“Pancakes are on the table. Bacon’s almost ready,” Sam announces. “Go wash up before it gets cold.”
Dean snorts at the command. This kid never ceases to amaze him.
Dean ignores Sam’s request to wash up and instead heads straight to the table, picking up a pancake and shoving it in his mouth plain. Man, that was good for the soul.
“Hey!” Sam walks over with a plate of bacon in his good hand and swats at Dean’s sticky fingers with his cast. “Have some manners.”
“No time for manners, Sammy,” Dean says, swiftly plucking a piece of bacon from the plate with a smug grin. “You do this whole spread yourself?”
“Yeah,” Sam smiles. “I feel good today.”
Dean can’t help but smile back. Kid’s grin is contagious. “That’s good to hear, man. Real good to hear.”
Bobby comes down the stairs a moment later, asks, “Is that bacon I smell?”
“Sure is!” Sam replies. “Better get some before Dean eats it all.”
Dean flips him the bird. “Bitch.”
Sam jerks, shouts, “Fuck!” and it all seems so completely them that Dean can’t help but laugh and feel like he’s got his family back, even if it is a little bit smaller.
end.