Back Home

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Supernatural. Darn.

Warning: Dean has some anxiety and panic attacks in this one.

A/N: I'm brand new to this fandom—just started watching the show a few weeks ago! I was hooked right away, and I couldn't resist writing a quick little Sam and Dean fic, because they are just too beautiful. I wrote this while watching the first season, before we know the connection between Sam's visions and the yellow-eyed demon, so in this story his visions are not demon-related. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: Taste of Ash

Dean was a one-track mind kind of guy.

And when his mind was focused on saving his younger brother, you could say that there wasn't anything in the world that would stop him.

He flicked the headlights on in the Impala in the growing dark and blinked back exhaustion. It had been three days since he had had more than a few hours of sleep at a time, stopping only to get gas and some money (via poker), or stop hitchhikers to ask them questions.

The questions had followed him from Arizona to Idaho, to Washington State, and they were always the same.

He would flash the small color photo of Sam, worn and faded now from being kept in his wallet. He would say, "Have you seen this man? He's with another hitchhiker. I'm trying to find him…I'm his brother, and he's run away from home."

Of course, he'd always leave out the part about Sam being captured by an evil ghost—the spirit of a murderous hitchhiker who makes lonely treks across the country, going on a pilgrimage to his home state each year and killing anyone who gets in his way.

Sam had it figured out—long before Dean suspected that the string of murders were caused by the paranormal. But by then it was too late; Sam was gone and didn't answer his cell.

Dean went on a spree—ravaging every road in Arizona, looking for his brother. His worst fear was finding Sam's body in a ditch somewhere, like the others.

He found more corpses, but he didn't find Sam.

Days passed and Dean followed the path the hitchhiker must have taken—using witness accounts and sightings of the two men. Always two. Which meant…

Dean shuddered.

Either Sammy was being held against his will without anyone else knowing, or else he was being controlled by the spirit, doing its bidding.

Dean hoped it was the former.

As the Impala cruised through the night, Dean glanced at his road map. According to the last witness he'd interviewed in eastern Washington, the two were headed west, towards the coast, and a small town…When Dean had called the city ordinance, he found that it also harbored the only cemetery within 60 miles.

Going back home.

Dean Winchester pushed the accelerator down further and sped through the night.

Tires rolling over bumps on the median strip forced his eyes open, and Dean swerved, nearly colliding with an oncoming car. Shrill honking informed him that the driver of that vehicle was not pleased.

Dean rubbed his eyes, cursing himself under his breath, and wishing that his brother was here. Ever since Sam had vanished, that slow creeping feeling of anxiety had begun to rise inside him.

First came the panic that his brother wasn't safe, and then came the guilt of not being able to protect him.

Then his eyes would start watering with the (smoke) emotion and he would feel something scratch at the back of his throat (ash). Coughing would sometimes clear it.

Although Dean had been witness to many of Sam's visions and nightmares, Sam did not know about his brother's panic attacks, and Dean wanted to keep it that way.

He pulled over at the next gas station. In the middle of nowhere at close to midnight, he was surprised it was still open. A single blue and beat-up Chevy truck was being filled up, and Dean wearily pulled in beside it, feeling the muscles creak in his back and legs as he shifted out of the car and pumped some gas.

When he went in the convenience store to pay for the gas, he passed two rough and weather-beaten men with scruffy faces and shifty eyes. He nodded at them warily, then paid for the gas at the counter.

"Is there a restroom?" he asked the man behind the counter.

"Round the back," the older man said, one of his eyes tuned to the mini television set he had on the counter in front of him. He was watching some kind of thriller.

Dean's only reason for stopping was to get gas and take a piss, but as he walked past the rows of snacks and chips his stomach began growling fiercely. When was the last time he had eaten? It frightened him that he couldn't remember.

As he stepped outside and went around the back towards the bathrooms, he decided that he would go back in the store and grab some food—just enough to make it to the coast…

That was the last thought that passed through his mind before he was jumped from behind and felt his forehead slam into the side of the building. Momentarily, everything went dark and then morphed into slow motion.

The two shifty-eyed characters with the Chevy began punching him until he was on the ground, rolling around in an attempt to evade their blows.

Through a haze of pain, Dean barely had the will to locate his car keys in his jacket pocket and grasp them tightly. When no one pried his hands loose he realized they weren't after his beloved Impala—they were after his wallet.

A few more forceful kicks, and one of them dug through his front pants pocket, pulling out the wallet. Dean was coughing—trying to get oxygen back in his deprived lungs after being punched in the stomach—and then his attackers were gone in a plume of dust.

Sam.

Immediately, Dean's eyes began watering, and he roared hoarsely as he wiped the tears away. Damn his stupidity. It was his own foolishness that made him stop here and ignore the shifty-ass hicks. And now this little scuffle had wasted even more time.

Slowly, he felt for his wallet. It was definitely stolen. Luckily, he always kept his driver's license in his back pocket, so the only thing the crooks had gotten away with were a bunch of bad credit cards.

That thought, at least, made Dean smile.

On the other hand, they had taken all of his access to money. And unless Dean could get in on a late night poker match, he wouldn't be able to find any more immediately. Dean calculated roughly how many more miles he had left and let out a sigh or relief when he realized he had plenty of gas to make it to his destination.

Clutching his keys in one hand, Dean slowly got up from the ground, leaning on the side of the store for support. A wave of dizziness hit him as soon as he was fully standing, and he felt for the small lump above his right temple where he had been sent into the wall.

Carefully shuffling, Dean made his way to the restroom to take a leak, and he was able to assess further damage in front of the mirror. Blood slowly trickled from one corner of his mouth and there were dark patches on his face. Gently, he ran cold water from the faucet, cupping some in his palms and splashing his face. The water stung, but it woke him up a bit. Next, he felt his ribs and lifted up his shirt, wincing at the bruises decorating his abdomen.

When Dean looked up at himself again, dark circles under his eyes told him how tired he was. But he disregarded them, along with the tears that began to well up again. Briefly, Dean lowered his head until another bout of dizziness subsided.

He fumbled for a couple of bucks he forgot he had in one of his jacket pockets and stepped outside, heading for a soda machine. He selected a Coke and sipped it before going back to his car. The cool wave of sugar wiped the taste of ash from the back of his throat, and he ambled to the front of the store.

Another wave of dread hit him when he suspected the thugs might have damaged her, but no. Thank God. His baby was looking good.

"Better than me," he mumbled, taking another swig of the cola before getting into the Impala and roaring away.

The next three hours passed by like a dream, but Dean didn't feel tired anymore. He almost felt like thanking the idiots in the Chevy for waking him up—reminding him that he had a job to do.

Sam was still out there.

It was almost three in the morning when Dean began creeping the Impala up the steep dirt road that led to the cemetery on the hill. He had already checked and was glad of the fact that this particular cemetery had no living onsite groundskeeper and was quite isolated from its neighboring town. It would make the rescue easier when he wasn't constantly worried about being discovered.

At last the Impala made it up the path, sending two frightened rabbits out of its way as it approached the cemetery. The sight of gravestones was almost comforting to Dean as he slowly got out of the car. At least this was familiar territory.

In the darkness, Dean saw nothing unusual. He slid to the trunk, removing a small satchel in which he placed a shovel, salt, lighter fluid, a lighter, and a shotgun. He strapped a hunting knife to his left calf, under his pant leg, and closed the lid shut.

He had no idea what to expect, really. And even though he wanted to shout out Sam's name, he knew that could put his brother in even greater danger.

So Dean stalked. It was actually a skill he was quite good at—proud of, in fact. He roamed through the mist of the graveyard, searching for any movement in the shadows of the full moon's light. Nothing.

And then.

It was a white tree, large and unusual for growing separate from the other trees; it stood, like a silent observer, on the edge of the graveyard. There was something—a figure sitting up against it. And there was another body—lying motionless on the ground.

Sam!

Dean sprinted to the tree, catching his breath and fighting back light-headedness when he realized that Sam was sitting against the tree—tied to it. The figure lying close to him was an older man with a grey beard. Blood ran down his face from a gaping hole in his head. The evil hitchhiker's host body, Dean thought. No more. The gun was next to him, and Dean left it alone. It wouldn't be too smart to leave his fingerprints on the murder weapon. When Dean saw the coast was clear, he instantly knelt beside his brother.

"Sam!" he said gently, taking his shoulders.

His brother's eyes were closed, and his face was as pale as the moon, but he appeared unharmed.

Then why won't he wake up?

"Sam!" Dean shook him slightly, speaking a bit louder. "Sam, it's me!"

He was probably just temporarily knocked out. Dean hoped there was nothing else wrong with him. Hastily, he took out his knife and cut the ropes binding Sam's hands, as well as the ones around his waist. He felt for Sam's pulse and was satisfied when the beat was steady and strong.

"I'll be right back, Sammy," he said. "There's one more thing I gotta do."

Dean stood up, once more surveying the scene. It was possible that the spirit had possessed the body of the bearded man to make its trek across the country and back home. But then why kill him?

Suicide. The ghost had originally died by killing himself, and it was repeating the process every year. The explanation seemed plausible to Dean.

But then why did it kidnap Sam? Something didn't fit.

Still, he had a job to do. There was a pretty good chance that the spirit of the hitchhiker would continue its deadly pursuits every year unless its remains were properly destroyed.

But where was this guy buried?

Dean noted that the bearded man had died on the grave of a woman. So this wasn't the right spot to dig. Unless…

Dean looked at the white tree across from the woman's grave and pulled out his shovel with a slight grunt. He began to dig and churn up the earth right in front of Sam, in front of the tree. Dean had to hand it to the spirit. If his hunch was correct, the ghost had picked the most majestic (and unofficial) grave marker in the whole cemetery.

The oldest Winchester worked for fifteen minutes until sweat began to roll down his back. He paused, feeling dizzy again, but willed himself to keep working. The job had to get done.

At last, he struck bone. Dean carefully picked out the skeleton of the hitchhiker, wiping the bones off with his sleeve, making sure he wasn't missing any. Rifling through his bag, he removed the salt, lighter, and fluid. He hastily salted the bones, purifying them, and then he poured lighter fluid over the top of them. The last step was—

"Nice work."

Dean nearly jumped three feet in the air, stifling a cry. He whipped around to find Sam leaning over him, a wide grin on his face.

"Jesus Christ!" His exclamation was Dean's way of expressing his affection and relief that his little brother was okay. "You almost scared me to death."

Sam let out a small chuckle.

Dean eyed him, an equal mix of worry and suspicion. "You all right? You were kinda comatose there a few minutes ago."

"I was just waiting…"

"Waiting?" Dean muttered, grabbing his lighter. "For what?"

"To do this."

Dean turned back around, but it was too late. Sam lunged forward with Dean's hunting knife, slashing him in the arm, and causing Dean to drop the lighter.

Dean cried out, falling over and then scrambling for the lighter, but his brother blocked his way, towering over him, a decidedly malicious gleam in his eyes.

"Sammy," mumbled Dean, his mouth suddenly dry. "This isn't you. It's the ghost. Try to hear my voice. Break through its control."

"Not going to happen," cackled Sam. "He's been under my power since Arizona. His unique abilities make him an…invigorating host."

"You son of a bitch! If you hurt him—"

"Oh, I'm going to kill him," crooned the thing speaking through Sam. "After I kill you. It's what I do to all the people who stand in the way of my journey home. And aren't all lives a journey home? A journey to death?"

"I don't get it," said Dean, inching closer to the lighter some five feet away that the ghost had forgotten about. "Why us? Why Sam?"

"I have a unique gift to reach into my hosts' minds. When I went into Sam's mind, I found you, and I knew that you would stop at nothing to find him, and destroy me."

"That's what I still don't understand," repeated Dean, inching closer. "Why pick ghost hunters?"

"Well, I'd thought about moving for a while, you see. Moving my bones to a new location, just to be safe. And you did all the dirty work for me." With that, Sam leaned in closer, grinning. "Thank you."

Before Dean had time to flinch, the spirit began pummeling him, blow after blow to his face and sides. Dean cried out, feeling blood run from his already-cut lip and battered nose. He doubled over when the spirit attacked his abdomen, adding fresh bruises to the ones that had occurred only hours ago. Through the beating, Dean couldn't make himself fight back. He wouldn't do anything to hurt his brother's body. But he also wouldn't let Sam be killed.

Another blow to his head, and Dean's vision started fading to grey. He could see the lighter, but he just couldn't reach it.

And then a miracle happened. The spirit dragged Dean to his feet and flung him backwards.

Dean landed right on top of the lighter.

Winded, the oldest Winchester held the lighter behind his back while the ghost rummaged through Dean's satchel. Sam pulled out the shotgun.

"So nice of you to bring this," said Sam in a voice that was his and yet completely different at the same time. "It's been fun, but it's time for you to become a ghost yourself."

Dean frantically tried to figure out a way of distracting the ghost before the gun went off. He ripped a piece of his shirt off in the hopes that he would have a few seconds to light it on fire and toss it into the grave. But Sam was quickly advancing on him… There was no possible way…

Dean took a small breath, blinking blood from his eyes, prepared for whatever happened.

"Welcome to your new grave," said the spirit, aiming the shotgun.

Dean closed his eyes…

…and he heard Sam scream.

He opened them, and the ghost was on its knees, hands clutched to his head, writhing in pain, either from some kind of vision or interference from Sam, or both. He had dropped the shotgun. Dean sprang to his feet and hovered over the grave.

"Nah," he said, "I think I'll let you keep it."

In one simple gesture, Dean lit the piece of torn shirt on fire and tossed it into the grave. The bones immediately caught on fire and smoke filled the air.

The spirit growled viciously, and Sam fell limply from his knees to collapse upon the ground, a vapor like mist seeping out of his body to evaporate in the night air.

As the bones smoldered, Dean caught his breath and quickly dashed to his brother's side.

"Sammy?" he panted. "You okay?"

Sam's eyelids fluttered open, as if from a deep sleep, and his eyes circled around dizzily.

"Dean? What happened?"

The oldest brother wanted to say that he was saving Sam's sorry ass again from a fate worse than death, blah blah blah, but Dean was too tired, and he couldn't hide his relief at seeing Sam alive and unharmed.

"You tried to kill me. Again. When you were possessed. Again. But you must have stopped the spirit somehow. Gave me time to roast his bones…" Dean noticed Sam's eyelids drooping again. "I'll explain later." Right now, Dean needed to get his little brother and himself as far away from the dead guy and barbecued bones as possible. They would drive until dawn at least, heading south. Just to be safe.

Dean helped Sam stand up and then assisted him the rest of the way to the car. Sam's legs were wobbly, but his face was getting back some color.

As Dean gently set Sam in the front passenger seat of the Impala, Sam grabbed his jacket collar. Dean stopped, surprised at the gesture. He was even more shocked when he concentrated on Sam's eyes—wide and terrified, as if he was a child again.

"It got inside my mind," he said, "and the ghost—"

"Sssh," Dean soothed, buckling his brother in securely. "You're just tired. Get some rest on the way."

He was about to walk back to the trunk and put the satchel away when Sam murmured, "I'm cold."

Dean pulled a fleece blanket from the back seat and covered his younger brother with it, tucking it in around his shoulders and under his legs like he did when he was little. And to his greatest amazement, Sam never protested once.

"Is that all right, Sammy?" he asked gently.

Sam nodded. "Thanks."

Dean closed the passenger door and tilted his head as if he had just been smacked in the face. Sam must be tired if he doesn't mind me calling him "Sammy."

He put the tools back in the trunk and then felt his legs buckling. Dean sucked in a sharp breath, willing himself not to lose it. Not yet. Not when they were still on the run and Sam was so vulnerable.

The smell of burning bones caused Dean to cough and he tasted the ash in the back of his throat again, a taste which had briefly gone away while he was saving Sam in the cemetery. His breathing hitched, and Dean felt a sweet syrupy taste in the back of his throat.

Not now, dammit!

Dean slammed the trunk closed and decided that he would keep driving as long as it took for Sam to recover.

When Dean got in the driver's seat, his brother's mouth was partially open, fast asleep beside him.

All it took was five seconds.

Dean closed his eyes, and the Impala swerved to the right, going off the road. At the first unusual jostle, Sam's eyes snapped open, and he grabbed the wheel, but it was too late. The car lost traction on the gravel and sharply dropped into the ditch. As they fell and the car began to roll, Sam remembered screaming, and Dean was mumbling the same words over and over again:

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

I'm sorry, Sam.