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They were in Flensburg, Minnesota, just a day’s drive down the road from Blue Earth, which is why Sam thought it was weird that Dean was up and out of bed in the blackest of predawn hours.
Well, not so much that he was awake, but that he’d left the room. Sam knew about the nightmares, the memories of Hell that made him spring up from the bed, shouting, with sweating pouring off of him. Sam had taken to making sure that he slept on Dean’s left side – away from his knife hand – and tried to give him at least the illusion of privacy once Dean had made it clear that he wanted nothing from Sam. Not comfort, and not attention.
It was an uneasy truce, but one that had at least kept Dean in the other bed across from him most nights. Sam wondered for a moment if the visit to Blue Earth had upset him somehow, more so than usual. They were supposed to have arrived at Bobby’s place tomorrow for Christmas, at his insistence, but when they hit the Minnesota line two days after putting down a Striga in Madison, Dean had simply headed the car up off the interstate, up the old, familiar route to Pastor Jim’s. When Sam had questioned him, Dean had simply shrugged.
“I want to pay my respects, Sammy. I never did that, and I just – I want to, okay?”
He’d said nothing else for three hundred miles, just turning up the radio louder when Sam tried to talk, and Sam had left him to his silence. He knew Dean too well not to be able to hear everything he wasn’t saying anyway. Why me, and not him? Why not pull a good man out of heaven, not a damned man out of hell? Sam wished that he could give him answers, but he feared that most of them led back to his own taint, to the angels’ belief that somehow, even after all of this, that Sam would somehow bring ruin to them all, and that Dean was the only one who could stop it.
He waited a few anxious moments, hearing strained, looking for a thin sliver of light under the bathroom door, but he had to concede that the room was empty. He got up reluctantly, wincing as his bare feet hit the cold, wooden floors, and dressed quickly and efficiently. He didn’t like to think of the days and months when the room had always been like this, when he’d been alone.
Ruby had never once stayed the night.
He walked out into the motel parking lot, still tugging a hat over his unruly hair, but he didn’t have far to go. Dean was perched on the trunk of the Impala, leaning back against it propped up on his elbows. He was dressed as warmly as Sam, but Sam could still see the fine line of tremors running down his back. He must have been outside for quite a while.
He approached the car slowly, his boots crunching into the fresh layer of snow on the parking lot. He could hear the distant beep of a plow, and wondered how long ago it had started snowing again. The Impala was already clean and cleared, and no snow was still falling. Dean glanced back at the sound of Sam’s footsteps, but didn’t acknowledge him, not until Sam came around the length of the car to stand facing him.
“Hey, Sammy, “ he said softly. Sam could see now the small flask of whiskey perched between his knees, the bottles almost empty.
“Hey, Dean,” he answered softly. “Been out here long?”
Dean shook his head and passed the bottle over wordlessly. Sam took a slug, welcoming the initial burn as it spread a layer of warmth throughout him. He handed the bottle back and came to sit beside Dean, jostling at him until there was enough room for the two of them to perch on the trunk.
“Jesus, be careful, you Sasquatch. Don’t dent my baby,” Dean grumbled, but he leaned into Sam’s warmth nonetheless. His voice was soft, the edges rounded, but not slurred. Sam wondered how long he’d really been out here alone.
“You okay, Dean?” he asked carefully. He was never sure about things with his brother these days, but sitting alone in a freezing Minnesota parking lot seemed a little out of character, even for this new version of Dean.
Dean shrugged again, taking another pull of whiskey. He tossed the empty bottle across the parking lot, and Sam listened for the distant sound of glass breaking.
“Do you know what tonight is?” Dean asked. Sam shrugged.
“It’s a Monday night,” he answered.
“Nah, it’s the solstice. At least in these parts,” Dean said, and shivered again. Sam knocked into him with a shoulder, but Dean wouldn’t look over to him. “The shortest day of the year.”
“So what are we doing out here?” Sam asked, “When we could be catching a few extra hours of sleep?”
Dean finally turned to look at him, eyes glittering.
“You know what I hated the most about Hell, Sam?” he asked, and Sam started. This was only the second time that Dean had mentioned his time below at all. “If was dark, all the time. If they weren’t – showing you things, horrible things, it was pitch black. Literally,” he said, laughing without humor.
Sam shivered and pushed against him again, unsure of what to do.
“So, are you out here enjoying the stars?” he asked uncertainly. Dean shook his head.
“Just waiting for the sunrise. It’s – it’s stupid, I know. But it’s the longest night. I just – I just wanted to be sure.”
Sam closed his eyes for a moment. He wished he could give his brother a moment’s peace, a minute of relief from the memories that would haunt him forever. Instead, he reached out, carefully draping his arm over Dean’s shoulder.
“What the – knock it off, Sammy. I don’t need a hug,” he snarled. But Sam simply tightened his hold.
“It’s not a hug, you moron. I’m sharing body heat. It’s fricking freezing out here, and we’ve got about another half hour until sunrise.”
Sam felt the moment that Dean relaxed against him.
“Oh,” he said softly, “Oh, well, if it’s necessary for survival...”
He trailed off, and Sam leaned against him, just for a moment.
“It is.”