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Bobby picks them up from the hospital, and he’s also the one who shows them the quiet, hidden place where they decide to burn their Dad’s body. It’s actually Sam who makes the decision to cremate Dad because when Bobby asks what they want to do with their father, Dean says nothing. He hasn’t said much ever since their dad passed.
It’s not an actual muteness, which in a way is even more disturbing. It’s not like he’s given up talking completely, but he remains lost in his own thoughts most of the time. The few occasions when he does utter a comment or remark, his voice is very quiet and a little raw, and Sam always jerks whenever he hears Dean speak. Sam wishes he didn’t act so surprised by the sound of Dean speaking, but he can’t help himself.
They enter Bobby’s house and the stuffed-with-old-books- living room, where only a couple of days ago they excorcised Meg and watched the poor girl die. Right down there on the floor she told them where they could find their dad, before her broken body couldn’t take the breathing and living any longer. Sam doesn’t have the strength now to ask Bobby for the details, what he told the EMTs when they got here and found the girl dead with a broken back and internal bleedings, and frankly, Sam doesn’t really want to know either.
“You guys can have the guestroom on the top floor,” Bobby says. “First door on the right.”
Sam nods, and replies, “Thank you.” From the corner of his eye he can see Dean standing next to him, face blank with that big red scar across his forehead. An ice cold finger slides down Sam’s spine and pokes him in the back, and Sam shivers slightly, hoping no one will notice. So close. So fucking close. So close to losing him.
Dean doesn’t react, doesn’t even seem to have heard, staring absent-mindedly into the distance even though in a closed room, there’s not much distance to stare at. Silence emerges, an awkward stillness that is conjured up when there’s too much to say and too few words to do so. Eventually Bobby opens his mouth to speak, but Dean quickly cuts in, “Where is she?”
“Out in the lot, ” Bobby answers calmly, and it amuses Sam that even Boby instantly knows whom Dean is referring to with “she.” “She’s a wreck, Dean.”
“I’m going to fix her,” Dean explains with a hint of defiance, and Sam wonders whether Bobby’s words about how damaged the car is made it through to Dean’s mind or not. Dean crosses the room for the backdoor without another word, and then he’s outside and the door swings shut with a thud.
“I’m sorry for his behaviour...” Sam says quietly, and he feels tears piling up and chokes them down. Oh God if only Dad was here, but then, if Dad was here Dean wouldn’t be so broken and suffering quietly, would he?
Bobby gestures for Sam to calm down. “It’s okay, Sam. We all deal differently with death.”
Sam nods, and his mind wanders back to the last time he saw his dad alive, thinking that something had been amiss then, and he should have known it. Known it by the way their dad seemed so quiet and unwilling to give orders just now, how he begged Sam not to fight for once. Sam should have sensed it, but he’d been too busy cursing him.
“Look, maybe you want to check out that room?” Bobby offers. He seems to have guessed that Sam would really appreciate some time alone now, even though Sam’s too numb to make up his mind about that himself. His insides feel like they’re frozen, and all the decisions spread before him seem too difficult to take. Does he care for something to drink? Something to eat? Does he want to rest? Sam honestly can’t say, and he’s greatful that at least this time Bobby takes the weight of the decision from his shoulders.
“Yes,” Sam answers, and he grabs his bag and climbs up the old stairway. It’s made of wood, which has adapted a brown so deep over time that one could mistake it for black. The house smells like old books and motor oil, a weird combination and yet strangely familiar. Like bits and pieces of their childhood melted together.
The door to the guestroom opens with a creak. Piles of dust meet Sam when he enters, but the mild breeze blowing in through the open windows gives the room needed fresh air. There’s a bed and a sofabed, both covered with fresh blankets and pillows. That’s as far as the coziness goes. The rest of the room is stuffed with old maps and books, jam glasses now holding all kinds of herbs and roots. Sam guesses the room’s usually used as a storage room. It doesn’t matter now, though.
He drops on the couch and rests his head into his palms. It’s the first time in days he’s actually got some time for himself. It’s the first time in days he can just bury his face and think without tip-toeing around Dean. Being around Dean hadn’t been easy the past days, especially not since Sam tried to be careful, not say something wrong, not press matters, hoping that Dean would eventually open up himself. Sam’s tried to pull himself together and now that he’s finally alone, he bursts into tears and cries the tears he’s been meaning to cry ever since Dad died.
His dad’s dead. Gone.
Regrets flare up almost immediately. He should have fought less with him; he could have made things easier. He could have told him that despite everything, he loved him and respected him. More than anything, he regrets all the years he spent trying to convince himself he hated his father.
And then for the first time Sam realises he’s an orphan now.
***
Dean spends all his time working on the car. From their room, Sam can hear him drilling and hammering and cursing under his breath. Dean gets up early in the morning, and then he vanishes from Bobby’s and Sam’s sight until late in the evening, and not even that’s a guarantee that he’ll be back at night again. Most of the times he doesn’t even return for lunch or dinner. He works on the car like a madman, the sounds of his attempts to fix the car a symphony of metal and sweat that wraps itself around the car dump.
Sam watches with an uneasy feeling because even though the doctors said Dean made a full recovery Sam can’t push the images and memories of Dean dying aside. He wishes Dean would give himself a break but Dean wouldn’t be Dean if he did that. He always needs work that must be done—in hard times more than usual. Sam knows that it’s how Dean’s mind works, but he doesn’t like it nonetheless.
The first night he stays up till late at night, listening to the sounds of Dean working on the car. Nightfall doesn’t bother his brother, and he works in the dim light of a flashlight, ruining his eyes. Eventually, around four in the morning, the car dump grows quiet, and Sam expects Dean to enter the room and fling himself on the bed and sleep. But nothing like that happens. So Sam gets up and glances out of the window, and through the dark he can see a figure curled up on the backseat of the Impala. Sam goes back to bed because what’s he supposed to do about it?
Dean gets up at seven and continues working on the car. Sam knows the exact time because he hasn’t slept that night either.
The same thing happens that night, only this time Sam’s prepared. When the noises stop early in the morning and after Sam’s waited a little while to make sure Dean’s fallen asleep, he gets up, grabs the unused blanket from Dean’s bed, and hurries downstairs and into the car dump. His footsteps are quiet on the sandy ground, and he approaches his brother without waking him. Dean’s lying on the backseat of the Impala, using his right arm as a pillow, facing the back of the seat. He’s not bothered to change, and Sam wonders whether Dean’s actually done anything but work on the car since they got here. He’s not bothered to shave or shower or put on fresh clothes. Maybe Dean hasn’t even noticed.
The doors of the car are open, like a bird with spread wings, waiting to fly again. Sam unfolds the blanket and drapes it over Dean gently, trying not to wake him. The air’s cooled down, and Sam’s worried that even though Dean will certainly not freeze to death, he might catch something. Yes, the doctors said fully recovered, but Sam’s not taking any chances. Especially not now, when Dean’s all that he’s got left in this world. He backs off quickly when Dean stirs and blinks. “Sam?” he asks into the darkness, voice raw and thick with sleep, yet immediately alert.
“Go back to sleep,” Sam says quickly, before he turns around and makes back for the house. He hears Dean say his name again but this time Sam ignores it, and Dean doesn’t come after him.
The next morning while Sam is having breakfast with Bobby, Dean comes stumbling in with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He grunts a greeting as he enters, but turns Sam’s offer for a coffee down. He climbs up the stairs, and a moment later Bobby and Sam hear the water in the bathroom being turned on. It’s funny, Sam thinks, that he should bother to take a shower now. Maybe Dean can read minds. Maybe he somehow knows Sam’s begun to wonder about that.
Sam nibbles at the sandwich half-heartedly. He knows he needs to eat, and yet he isn’t the slightest bit hungry. Sort of like Dean, Sam muses, only that Dean prefers to avoid food completely. He sighs and puts the sandwich down, only noticing now Bobby’s eyes are resting on him and seem to have done so for a while now.
“Are you okay, Sam?” he asks.
Sam’s on the verge of shrugging, smiling, and saying, “Yes, sure.” But then he finds he doesn’t have the power to lie, and why should he? Bobby knows what’s happened, after all, so Sam replies truthfully, “I don’t know.” He ruffles his hair; his head feels very heavy all of a sudden, as if a leaden brick behind his forehead is pulling him down. “I mean, I never saw Dad much those past four years. So I shouldn’t miss him now, but I do. It’s just – weird to think I’m never going to see him again. You know?” He supports his head with his hands and closes his eyes. Speaking the words out loud is much harder than he thought, because it makes the state of things so definite. Stubbornly Sam chokes down a bunch of tears.
“Your dad was a good man,” Bobby says. “And he loved you boys beyond reason. He might not always have shown it, but you were his everything.”
“The last thing I did was fight with him,” Sam tells Bobby with a bitter smile. “I accused him of being selfish. Selfish of all things. I was such an idiot.” He pauses before he continues, his voice a quiet murmur now, “He traded his life for Dean’s, didn’t he?”
“I’m not sure, Sam. He might have.”
And Sam nods.
***
Sam spends that day sitting by the Impala, watching Dean work. They don’t talk but Sam doesn’t mind, even though Dean’s silence still worries him. He remembers that time in Wisconsin, when Dean told Lucas that after Mom’s death he hadn’t felt like talking. It’s the same pattern again, isn’t it? It’s the way Dean’s dealing or not dealing, who knows. Sam’s read up on it on the Internet, about how people grieve, hoping he could find a way to help his brother. But it seems he can’t. He can’t force Dean to talk, so he just offers it to him over and over again, “Are you ok?”
But Dean only shrugs and says, “Sure, fine.”
The radio Dean’s placed next to the car is playing old rock songs, and in his mind, Sam is quietly singing along. His dad is gone and he still can’t fully grasp it, and his hands start to tremble violently whenever he sees or hears something that reminds him of his dad. Sometimes he thinks he hears his dad call his name and tell him to look after Dean and that Dean needs him right now no matter what he says. The car reminds him of his dad, too – naturally, only not as much as it used to. It’s Dean’s car now, and the first person he thinks of when he sees the black form of the Impala is Dean, not Dad. Sometimes he thinks he can smell his dad and he wonders whether Dean can too.
It’s weird to think he’ll never see him again. Even back in Stanford, when he was sure he wouldn’t, it wasn’t as certain as this. He could have seen him if he’d wanted. This now is final, and Sam feels like they’ve not fully grasped yet what means for them. God, he misses their dad.
Towards the evening he leaves Dean for himself and goes back into the house. Bobby’s made dinner, but when Sam asks Dean he claims again that he’s not hungry. Bobby’s been trying to help them, Sam can tell. Bobby’s not much for talking, but he tries to offer a comfortable, steady place for them to stay, and Sam appreciates that.
They’re sitting at dinner when Bobby suddenly begins to tell Sam stories of John Winchester. They’re funny little anecdotes, memories of a John that Sam never experienced. No, that would be wrong. He did, but then he grew older and in his mind he replaced Dad’s concern with bossiness, and he ignored his kindness and the moments when he cracked jokes and made his sons laugh until they had tears in their eyes. Those were happier times, when despite the hunt and their life on the road, there was still safety and steadiness. And the feeling that no matter what the day would bring, by the end they would be together again. And if not that day, then the next. Or the day after that, but they’d be the Winchester family again.
“You should remember him like that,” Bobby says.
“I wish I’d told him that I love him,” Sam admits quietly, staring at the pile of food on his plate. It wouldn’t seem like a pile of food under normal circumstances, but right as of now, it is at least the extent of the Mount Everest for Sam.
“Oh Sam, he knew that. Don’t worry. He knew that.”
It’s raining that night, so around three in the morning Dean shows up in their room, shirt soaked and his hair damp. He curls up on his bed, not bothering to change, and Sam would like to tell him that he’ll catch pneumonia if he doesn’t take care of himself, only he’s pretending to be asleep and Dean will only be pissed at him. And even though Dean must be completely exhausted, it takes him fifty-seven minutes until his breath evens out and he falls asleep. Not that Sam’s counting or anything.
***
“I don’t know how to help him,” Sam confesses the next afternoon. He’s slouched against the old couch in Bobby’s living room, and the TV’s on but Sam’s not really watching. Bobby’s reading the newspapers, circling suspicious deaths with a red marker just like Dean does. Bobby looks up when he hears Sam’s words.
“Dean?”
Sam nods. “Yeah.”
“I’m not sure you can help him, Sam. Not until he’s willing to accept help.”
Sam sighs heavily. “I know.”
Bobby picks up the newspapers again, and for a while both fall silent. Sam bites his lip, and from the car dump he can dimly hear Dean working on the car. He was up that morning before Sam even cracked an eye open.
“I’m... I’m so happy he’s alive,” Sam says quietly, making sure Dean can’t hear him. Bobby puts the newspapers down again, and Sam continues wih a low voice, “I mean – I’m sad Dad’s dead. Really. Christ, I’d give anything to have him back. But at the same time – I’m glad it wasn’t Dean. I don’t know what I would have done if Dean had...not recovered.” He speaks the last two words barely audible, but Bobby hears them nonetheless, and he nods. Sam bites his lip again. “I shouldn’t be thinking that, should I? You’re not supposed to pick between family members, and I just did.”
“Sam, from what I’ve gathered Dean’s the one who always looked after you, and he’s the person that knows you best. You spent the past year on the road with him, so I would be surprised if things were different. If John really made a deal with the demon, I guess it wasn’t only to save Dean but also because he knew you couldn’t lose him. You can deny it all you want Sam, but the two of you always had a strong bond, and you always will have.”
“I can’t tell him I’m sort of happy that Dad died and not him, can I?”
Bobby shakes his head with a sad chuckle. “No, Sam, I think that’s out of question. You can never tell him.”
“Yeah. Figured as much.”
Another breakfast, and Sam informs Bobby that he’s going to seek and kill the demon. “He’s taken everything except Dean, and I’m sure that’s only a matter of time. I’m going to kill it before it can do that.”
Bobby raises an eyebrow, but before he can reply there are steps on the stairway, and as they twist their heads they spot Dean coming down. He looks like he belongs back in bed, because if anything he looks exhausted and beaten and in need of rest. Sam’s tried gently convincing him to give himself a break, but Dean would have none of it. In any case, Sam’s happy that Dean has apparently decided to trade the backseat of the car for a real bed at night. He stumbles down the stairs and stops next to the breakfast table, looking at Sam and Bobby with confusion written all over his face.
“It’s called breakfast,” Sam says casually.
Dean narrows his eyes a little as if he’s trying to figure out what is going on and then confusion gives way for surprise. “I overslept.”
“You’ve got nowhere to be, you can’t oversleep.” Sam gestures to an empty chair. “Breakfast? You gotta eat sooner or later, Dean.”
For a moment Sam thinks that he’s gotten through to his brother, but then Dean shrugs. “Huh.”
He grabs a slice of bread and hurries outside into the car dump.
Sam puts down the toast he’d been chewing on and rubs his temples. “Christ,” he mutters.
“He’ll come around sooner or later.”
“I hope so.”
“So,” Bobby begins after a short pause, “you want to hunt down the demon?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure about that? Look where revenge got your family, Sam.”
Sam stares out of the window vacantly, and his voice is very calm and very old when he replies, “Revenge has got nothing to do with it. I’m not going to avenge Dad or Jess. This is about not losing more people. It’s about keeping the last bit of family I have.”
“Where are you gonna start?” Bobby asks.
Sam clears his throat and shrugs. “No idea. I’ve found Dad’s cell phone, so maybe I can hack the password and go through his contacts. Maybe someone knows something. Besides ... maybe it will do Dean good to hit the road again.”
“And you’re sure that this is what you want?”
“No,” Sam answers truthfully. “But it’s the best I can get.”
***
It takes Sam two days to hack into Dad’s cell phone. It’s not easy, even more so because Sam can’t work with his usual concentration. His mind wanders in all possible directions, but mostly to memories of his dad, and the three of them being together and then to Dean working on the car from early morning to late night.
He’s got to do something…anything. He feels it’s his turn now to take care of his brother, no matter what. Dad taught them to look after each other, told them that taking care is a two-way street, and to carry each other’s burdens. And Sam’s going to make Dad proud, even if Dad will never know.
On the sixth day, Dean seems to slowly pick up courage again. He spends the nights in his bed, and he gets up when Sam does instead of the middle of the night, and he also has breakfast with Sam and Bobby, even if he doesn’t eat much.
“Are you making progress on the car?” Sam enquires.
Dean says, “A little.” Sam and Bobby exchange meaningful glances that Dean doesn’t notice. He eats in silence and so do Sam and Bobby. When he’s finished Dean tells them he’ll be outside, which is about the longest conversation he’s had with Sam in days. Sam’s stomach knots a little with hope and fear. Hope that Dean’s on the mend, fear that he might not.
Dean’s outside fixing the Impala; Sam can hear him from their room. If he looked outside he could probably see his brother, but Sam doesn’t want to. Instead, he carefully goes through Dean’s stuff, until he’s found the box with the photos that Jenny gave them in Lawrence. Sam’s not looked at them in ages, mostly because Dean keeps them among his stuff, and Sam doesn’t like asking for them. He takes the box out and opens it slowly, and he exhales in preparation before he picks the photos up.
Dad’s only in some of them, as he apparently took most of the photos. Still, even though he’s not visible in the pictures, it feels like a part of him is with Sam. He took those photos so he was there, and Sam even remembers some of the occasions, remembers how Dad told them to hold still and smile, those rare moments when their dad was just an ordinary dad like all the others. Looking at the pictures helps remembering because Sam’s already beginning to forget what Dad looked like. He can smell him and hear his voice, but he can’t see him.
What’s he supposed to do? He’s got to find the demon and kill it. If he doesn’t, Dad’s death will have been in vain. If he doesn’t, the demon will come and take Dean, sooner or later. He doesn’t have a choice, and he can’t tell Dean. All he can tell his brother is that he’ll continue hunting. Not that he’s doing it to save Dean.
Sam puts the photos back and makes sure Dean won’t notice he’s been through his stuff. He flings himself on the sofabed, arms folded behind his head, and he closes his eyes. The noises drifting in from the car dump have become such a constant companion that Sam almost doesn’t notice them anymore. His mind’s begun to ignore them.
Find the demon, kill it. That is, if it can be killed, which won’t be easy with both their dad and the Colt gone. It’s all up to him no, but no pressure. You can handle it Sam, or maybe you can’t.
He succeeds in hacking into Dad’s cell phone the next day and listens to the messages on the mailbox. There’s one by a woman called Ellen, and it’s weird because she seems to know Dad, but Dad’s never mentioned her, or at least Sam can’t remember. She says that she can help, so maybe she knows about hunting, maybe she’s even a hunter herself, who knows? It’s a place to start, as good as any, and Sam has a feeling the sooner he gets Dean back on the road the better. Dean needs the highway and the gravel back roads and the motels, needs the certainty he’s getting somewhere as towns and trees and gas stations pass by. He’s the sort of person that needs to be on the move or maybe he’s not, but he grew up like that and the urge to gain their dad’s approval turned him into someone who can’t stay in one place for long.
They’re getting nowhere here. Both literally and figuratively. Dean’s never going to talk here because he can just escape into the car dump and hide himself under the hood all day long. Sam won’t have that. He can’t.
He listens to the voice message one more time, nods to himself and gets up. He’s going to get Dean back on the road.
Now.
-end-