Well, That's Another Mystery Solved

by FraidyCat

A/N: I admit it — I have a problem with "suspension of disbelief". As much as I love The Bunker (and I do love The Bunker), certain questions have plagued me since the moment The Batcave became a regular SPN plot device. This "three-shot" is an attempt to put my own mind at ease.

Chapter 1: The Set-Up

Sam sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes. "Dean," he started, "it's not like I did it on purpose. You're the one who blew shapeshifter goo all over me. I had to get the suit dry-cleaned."

"I blew shapeshifter goo all over you because you were about to become shapeshifter chum," Dean spat back. "And of course you had to get the suit cleaned. I'm not an idiot, Sam, I'm just tired. So why the hell didn't you put the suit back in the trunk afterwards? It's been months since that job!"

Sam turned his head to watch the darkness rushing by the passenger window. He hated to play on Dean's overly developed sense of Big Brother Guilt — but desperate times called for desperate measures. "The trials started right after that," he informed the window before turning his head back toward his brother. "I wasn't feeling very good, and that first weekend Charlie stayed with us, she picked up the dry cleaning when she went to town for some groceries — she hung the suit in my closet, and I just forgot she put it there. I never use the closet."

Dean's hands tightened around the steering wheel, and he frowned — but to Sam's complete surprise, he continued to argue. "And that's another thing," Dean said. "Move into the damn Bunker, already."

Sam considered that for a moment, and then decided to stick to one fight at a time. "The point is, we're going in as FBI agents tomorrow. I need my suit."

"I know your frickin' point, Sam," Dean huffed. "My point is that it's nearly midnight, and I've been driving almost eight hours. I'm not turning the car around and driving back to the Bunker."

Sam sighed again, and ran a hand through his hair. "So we get a later start tomorrow than we planned," he responded. "It's a small town, but there must be a place that sells suits."

Dean's guffaw rang sarcastic. "In gigantor size?" he asked. "I seem to remember waiting two weeks for alterations on the one you have. Stupid broad shoulders and giraffe legs." He shifted in his seat. "Besides, like you said, it's a small town. Don't you think someone might remember having to sell the FBI agent a suit?"

Sam glared at his brother. "So what are we going to do?" he demanded. "You won't go back to get my suit, and we can't buy a new one. You're not going to the crime scene alone!"

"Didn't say I was,' Dean answered, pumping the brakes and hitting the turn signal. Sam glanced out the windshield and saw that they were turning into a Motel 6.

"Why are we stopping here?" he asked, confused. "We're still an hour out…"

"Tom left the light on for me," Dean quipped, driving slowly toward the motel's office. Once there, he let the car idle in neutral while he turned more fully toward his brother. "This is what we're gonna do. I'm tired. I was tired before we left — but you insisted we had to leave after I'd already spent the entire morning working on Baby."

"The…" Sam started, but Dean interrupted. Loudly.

"SO. I'm going to stay here. Get some sleep — something you've been doing for at least half the trip, by the way. You should be well-rested…you can just turn the car around and drive all night. You should be at The Bunker by 8 in the morning."

Sam looked at him, incredulous. "You're kidding. You want me to take the Impala and drive back to pick up my suit?"

Now Dean rolled his eyes. "No, I don't want you take the Impala, Sam. You hurt my Baby, don't even bother to call and tell me about it. But I don't see any other way you're getting back to The Bunker."

"There and back is almost a 16-hour drive!" Sam protested.

Dean reached to open his door. "Then you'll probably think twice before you do something this lame again," he smirked, then moved to exit the car. "Just let me grab my duffle from the trunk."

"Dean!" Sam grabbed for his brother, and just barely caught the sleeve of his jacket. Outside the vehicle now, Dean leaned to look back at Sam.

"Don't bruise my Baby. Find a mini mart or something — get a gallon of hot coffee and some No-Doz. I'll give you four hours to sleep at The Bunker before you start back. I expect you to be back here by 8:00 p.m. tomorrow night."

Sam made one last, desperate, attempt. "Just a few months ago I was dying," he reminded his brother.

Dean flinched, but didn't give in. "Well, you're not anymore," he answered. "You're running in the mornings and crowing about how great you feel. This is your chance to prove it."

It was time to give up. Reluctantly, Sam slid over to the driver's side of the Impala. He reached for the keys. "You need to open the trunk?"

Dean grabbed the keys as soon as Sam slid them from the ignition. "I'll just be keeping these," he informed his brother. "I like to have part of Baby with me at all times." He started for the rear of the vehicle, then stopped. "Or did you forget your set of keys, too? In one of the suit pockets, maybe?"

"Shut up," Sam sulked, digging into the pocket of his jeans — and trying not to show his relief when he found his set of keys to the Impala there. He pulled the keys from his pocket. "They're right here."

Dean was already digging around in the trunk. He emerged with one duffle — and one suit. "Good," he said shortly, slamming the trunk lid and pocketing his own keys. He stopped at the now-closed driver's door on his way into the motel office. "You got any quarters?" he asked through the partially open window. "There might be magic fingers."

SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN

For the first few hours, Sam's slow burn did more to keep him awake than the mini mart coffee. How could his brother do this to him? Dean hardly ever let Sam drive the Impala — even when they were together — and now he was sending Sam off on 16-hour drives in the middle of the night. After all, it was as much his fault as it was Sam's that the suit was left behind. Well, it was kind-of his fault. Dean hadn't noticed that the suit wasn't in its usual place in the trunk, and he complained so much about their late start yesterday that he thoroughly distracted Sam, who had to spend his energy talking his brother into the trip, instead of remembering things like suits. Plus, if Dean hadn't talked Kevin into taking a break from The Bunker and the angel tablets, the prophet could have at least met Sam halfway, and cut eight hours off his trip.

From 2:00 to 3:00 a.m., self recriminations kept Sam awake. How could he have been so stupid? Their suits were their uniforms, as vital to the job as their bags full of weapons. Yes, he was feeling much better physically than he had during the trials — but maybe something mental had been damaged. He had been depending on Kevin and Charlie more to do things he was perfectly able to do himself — or, at least he used to be able to do them. Had he not noticed that he was losing it? Hell, maybe he had lost it during the whole "Wall" episode. Basically, his life sucked — there had been countless opportunities for him to lose his marbles over the last few years.

At 3:00 a.m., Sam stopped for more coffee. Standing in line at the mini mart — there was a line at 3:00 a.m. at a mini mart? — Sam eyed the display of prepaid phones and contemplated buying one just so he could call Dean and wake him up. Stupid older brothers. One minute they were smothering you, and the next they were kicking you out of bed and making you drive all night. Not only that — Sam's older brother would figure out the call was from Sam, even if he didn't use his regular phone, and even if it was 3:00 a.m. Sam was in enough trouble already, so he just paid for his coffee and hit the road.

By 4:00 a.m. he was singing along with Kansas, off-key and loud. He started singing to keep himself awake — but after awhile, he started to enjoy it. No one to tell him he was off-key. No one to complain when he got the words wrong. No one to notice that, truth be told, he loved 70s rock — it reminded him of road trips with his father, when he and Dean were innocent (even though they didn't know it). Good times.

5:00 a.m. found Sam weepy and full of remorse, mourning for all that he and his stellar older brother had lost. They had lost all that innocence — years before most people do, and in ways that most people never do. Mom. Dad. Jess. Lisa. Ben. Bobby. Pastor Jim. Rufus. Ellen, and Jo. They'd dragged Kevin into this mire of quicksand that passed for their lives — and now Charlie was off in some other dimension, because of them. It was horrible. It was all horrible. Walls, and scars, and angels without grace, and kings of hell in the dungeon…Holy Shit.

Sam had to pull off the road just a couple of hours away from The Bunker, to sit on the hood of the Impala at a scenic overlook and watch the sun rise. Consciously, he let the darkness within him slowly leech away, just as the darkness around him did. He allowed the sun to rise, reminding himself that the sun was coming up — and nobody knew better than he did what a miracle that was. It wouldn't be fair to say that he had found his hope again, by the time he got back into the car — but at least the brisk air had invigorated him, and he was no longer suicidal, so Sam was counting it as a "win".

About an hour before he reached The Bunker, Dean called. Sam put him on speaker and laughed for 15 minutes while Dean lay in his warm Motel 6 bed and regaled him with tales of the roadside bar he had found just a few miles from the motel — a bar Dean had somehow found the energy to not only visit, but close, the night before. Sam stopped his brother midway into a description of his subsequent experience with Magic Fingers, and the two brothers were on much friendlier terms when they ended the call than they had been when Sam's long drive began. Dean even said that Sam could sleep "as long as he needed to" before making the 8-hour trip back.

After Sam's unplanned scenic stop, it was nearing 8:30 a.m. before he finally guided the Impala down the long dirt-and-gravel drive that led to The Bunker. His wide yawn was abruptly swallowed in a gulp of apprehension when he came around the last bend in the drive — and saw the late-model Ford pickup parked outside the main door. He quickly shut down the Impala's purring engine and let the muscle car coast to a stop behind the truck. His eyes darted around the outside of Dean's "Batcave" while he blindly opened the car's glove compartment and retrieved the .44-caliber Smith & Wesson nestled within. Seeing no activity, Sam determined whoever was visiting must be inside. "What the hell?" he murmured, as he carefully shouldered open the driver's side door. He winced as the familiar creak sounded, which suddenly seemed entirely too loud. "Damn it Dean, get some WD," he whispered, leaving the car door hanging open while he crept — Smith & Wesson first — toward The Bunker.

End, Chapter 1