Note: this work contains violence against animals, threatened violence against women, major character death, and disturbing themes.
Dr. Amelia Richardson's house is dark. Dean pulls his keys from the ignition, dried mud on his hands flaking as he moves. Kermit, Texas isn't as green as its froggy counterpart.
His lock picks and the syringe are the only things he carries as he approaches the house.
Cas called two days ago as Dean dropped the first shovel-full of dirt onto the box. The angels came crashing down in a damn meteor shower, and Dean listened to the low gravel of Cas's voice, feeling for the relief that should come with Cas breathing. It was why he had answered the phone. Hoping it was Cas.
"Heaven and Hell, slammed shut," Dean said.
Cas, his voice small and so very human, said, "I'm sorry."
The house looks like Sam. Neat and functional, with a big grassy yard shadowed with flowers. Dean rubs dirt into his eyes till they water, and he wishes he could see the house. But he's not here to admire real estate, even if Sammy had great taste.
He fumbles at the lock with hands that shake despite the warm southern wind, but the door admits him. What else could Dean expect of a home that belonged to Sam?
The door doesn't creak when Dean opens it.
(Did Sam stand here, too large for the entryway, with some WD-40? When they moved in, did Sam change the locks? Spread salt here? Or did Sam trust in imagined safety? Would it have been too much to explain to the girl?)
Dean steps into the ghost of a life built that could never be.
"Listen, we sent Kevin to the bunker. I'll give you his number. You—you go meet him there. Till we get—get this mess cleaned up," and Dean's voice barely shook.
"Of course. Dean—I—" Cas started, and Dean was sharply glad Cas wasn't there, or he might have punched him.
"Just—" He took a shuddering breath. "Just call Kevin."
The house is dark and silent as Dean creeps through. No clutter bars his path; in fact, the whole place is starkly clean like a hotel room without the funky smells. If Dean didn't know she lived her still, he'd think she'd moved on.
Research is an awesome thing, even if Sam might call it stalking. Whatever.
He clutches the syringe tightly and slinks up the he pushes open the bedroom door, he sees, in the light from the outside streetlamp, the damn dog sleeping at the foot of the bed.
No demons to make deals with and the angels falling from Heaven, Dean found himself clutching Sam's cold body (again) without a crossroads to turn to and the body of the former King of Hell not ten feet away. Dean pressed his face into the sweat-stink of Sam's cooling shoulder, shuddering and sobbing.
This had been his burden to carry. Not Sam's.
Dean approaches, syringe held out in front of him, ready. Is he supposed to just jab it in anywhere? Goddamn. Sam was the dog person, not Dean.
The dog uncurls and his beady little eyes lock on to Dean. Which is when the damn thing starts to bark and bark and bark like the fucking world is ending. Dean can't help the shudder that passes through him as a tidal wave. "Riot?" that must be Amelia's voice, all worn out with sleep, and she doesn't even sound hot. "Riot, what—Oh my god!" She lunges for where she probably keeps her phone—and Dean drops the syringe to grab her. Lady shrieks as he pulls her to him, then he wraps an arm tightly around her middle.
Shit, goddamn.
"So her dead husband wasn't so dead?" Dean asked, swiping over the gun with the cleaning cloth again, "Dude, tough break."
Sam snorted from the bed, freakishly long legs propping the laptop up as he typed. Probably doing research, since he was a giant nerd. "Yeah, I'm sure you're really broken up about it."
"Let go!" She kicks at him while the dog just keeps fucking barking, and Dean has to dodge angry animal teeth.
"Call of the goddamn mutt, Amelia," he snarls, tightening his grip while she twists and struggles. "I'm not going to hurt you. I"m Dean. Dean Winchester. Sam's brother? I just need you to calm down, okay?"
Amelia lands a surprisingly hard kick to his shin for someone that fixes dogs all day. "Calm down?! You snuck into my house! Where's Sam? I'm calling the cops!"
"What, with your phone? Back off." Dean kicks Riot hard enough the thing flies back and hits the wall with a whine; Dean can feel Sam roll over in his grave.
After the Trial, Crowley looked up at Dean with wide eyes, blood dribbling out his mouth. From veins flowing with Sam's blood. Dean lifted the gun—shot him right between the eyes. Crowley's body landed beside Sam's, and Dean left Crowley there in the Church.
He laid Sam out in the backseat.
The damn dog gets back to his feet as Amelia thrashes and beats her fists against Dean. "Let me go!"
"I'm just here for the dog!" He throws her onto the bed, and quickly unbuckles his belt as she struggles to rise. "So where's the husband you ditched Sam for? Shouldn't he be here?"
Amelia lunges for her phone again, and he grabs her by the ankle, puts her back into her place. Dean uses his belt to bind her hands to the headboard. She thrashes, and Riot growls from behind him. Dean kicks the dog again when it comes at him, and Dean looks down at Amelia.
Her face is all red and blotchy, her chest heaving and she doesn't even have a nice rack. The curls of her hair are totally not sexy, and she cusses him out like a hunter might. Really, what Sam saw in this bitch. Some dorky little vet with a goddamn mouth on her. "So, where is your husband, anyway?"
"He stepped out for a minute. He'll be here any minute," she bites out.
"Uh-huh," Dean grins. "Sure thing, sweetheart. Don't worry. I'm not gonna hurt you. Like I said, I'm here for the dog. Not you."
Dean finds the syringe on the floor. Riot quivers in the corner, watching him and Amelia, and Dean makes a face. It just had to be a dog, didn't it? Amelia shuts her eyes tight, shaking, and her voice is thick when she asks, "Where's Sam?"
"He's dead."
Dean pressed his hand to Sam's overheated forehead, before brushing the sweat-slicked strands of hair out of his face. Sammy didn't even stir in his sleep, which was probably good. They hadn't really talked over the whole protocol on visiting each other's rooms in the dead of night.
He glanced over to the trashcan and grimaced. Tissues filled it to the brim. And, he'd bet his last twenty that they were stained dark with blood. Purification his ass.
Amelia finally goes limp, her breath coming in heavy pants. "…He's what?" she asks, voice sharp and high, and Dean bends to pick up the syringe. "Sam can't be—"
"He is. So, as his only remaining family, I'm here for the dog." Dean turns to face the cowering mutt. Riot whines.
The belt groans as Amelia pulls against it. "You can't—Sam and I agreed I would keep Riot. You can't—just, stop. Just stop. Please. What happened to Sam? How did he—?"
"Listen, sweetheart. Hopefully, you're not dumb enough to think you knew everything about Sammy." Dean approaches Riot, and the fucking dog runs out of the room. Son of a bitch. "He's dead. And that's it. So, I'm here for the dog."
And he goes tearing after the stupid animal, finds it scratching at the back door. Riot growls when Dean gets too close, but he slams the syringe into the dog. Upstairs, Amelia curses and yells some more.
Sam hadn't really wanted to talk about Dr. Amelia Richardson. Kept saying that it was over, that Dean had gotten what he wanted. That Dean wouldn't understand anyway, like Dean had never been in love before.
But something in Sam's face had stopped Dean from asking more. His eyes had shut, tight, like he was trying to keep something out, and his expression had been so so blank.
Somehow, Dean never really knew the right thing to say.
Riot collapses into a heap. Barely even whines as Dean carries him out to the car, and lays him out on the towel in the backseat. He glances back at the house with a frown, then heaves a sigh. What a pain.
When he enters the room, Amelia bares her teeth at him, but there are tear tracks wet on her cheeks. "What did you do with my dog?"
"He's coming with me. Now, here's how it's gonna be. I'll let you loose, but I'm taking your phone. Okay?" he doesn't wait for a response, just grabs her cellphone off the bedside table, wonders if Sam picked it out the table, the wood's nice, and then he unlatches his belt.
Amelia lashes out at him, but he expects it—dodges, and then he dashes down the stairs.
As he pulls out of her driveway, she stands on the porch, shuddering with tears.
When Dean arrives at the bunker, Cas smiles tentatively at the dog limp in Dean's arms. "I was wondering when you were going to show up. What is his name?"
"Riot."