Title: Measure My Life in Coffee Cups
Characters: Sam & Dean Winchester
Rating: T for language
Word Count: 13,787
Genre: Family, fluff, h/c
Warnings/Spoilers: Vague spoilers for entire series, and specifically Season 10 (more specifically Soul Survivor).
Summary: Ten chronological snapshots, measured by ten significant cups of coffee in Sam Winchester's life.
A/N: Written for this prompt for LiveJournal's spn_bigpretzel spring fic exchange, Charlie brings up something else she's read in the Winchester Gospels that really surprises one or both of the brothers. Not a secret one was keeping, just something gone unmentioned even though it probably should have been.
A/N2: My muses tend to take on a life of their own and this kept wanting to go in directions entirely inappropriate for this community. However, for those who like more angsty h/c, etc., I will probably be posting deleted scenes on my own LJ after the exchange, as I have like 8,000 words of scrapped fic still on the cutting floor. Also, there's artwork (a banner) to go with this fic, if you want to hop over to my LJ to have a look.
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. ~ T.S. Eliot
1.
"Daaaaaaaad! Sammy's pinching me!"
"Was not!"
"Was too!"
"Was not!" At the ever-fraying end of his already short patience, John Winchester glances in the rearview window in time to see a tiny hand demonstrating just what, indeed, his four-year-old son has been doing. "Issa turtle bite! Turtle bite, turtle bite!"
"DAD!"
Silently impressed that Dean has not yet retaliated in any way toward the little monster that is a bored, hungry toddler, John sighs, and cuts across three lanes of traffic toward the only restaurant in sight, ignoring the chorus of horns which blare at him for his lack of driver courtesy.
"Screw off, jerkwad!" His nine-year-old mini-me yells out the back window, and he winces, hoping his wife (God rest her beautiful soul) will someday forgive him for what will probably become several decades of colossal child-rearing mistakes.
"Dean…"
"What?"
"Never mind." He turns into the McDonalds parking lot and slides into a space near the door. "Take your brother to the bathroom and meet me in line in five."
"I wanna hashbrown!"
"You wanna get moving before I make you," Dean threatens, unbuckling the child's seatbelt and giving the bright red windbreaker a firm tug by the hood.
"Leggo me."
"No can do, squirt."
"Leggo me, Dean!"
"Sure, Sammy, sure. Hey look, you wanna take a picture with ol' Ronald over there?"
John rolls his eyes and moves past his now grinning and screeching (respectively) children and into the slow-moving, bleary-eyed line of blue-collared businessmen, wondering how in the world it is still another ten hours to South Dakota.
Five minutes on the dot later, a red blur slams into his legs just as he finishes tossing a huge wad of napkins into his hard-earned bag of cholesterol (if he's getting charged two dollars for a freaking apple juice, the place can afford to re-stock his glove box, thank you very much). Biting back a curse, he only barely juggles the cup holder and a loose coffee until Dean quickly takes the holder (currently full of said apple juice, as Sammy for some reason tends to throw up orange on long car rides, they long ago found out the hard way). He then breathes a sigh of relief, patting his youngest briefly on the head.
"Wait for me in the car," he instructs wearily, handing over the greasy bag as well as the car keys. Dean nods, easily corrals both younger child and food, and heads out the door as John parts ways to relieve himself.
Less than two minutes later, he is banging on the window to get Dean's attention, as for some reason he's otherwise occupied with what looks like Sammy already making a mess in the back seat. The nine-year-old leans up to unlock the driver's door, a look of slight guilt on his face.
"What happened," he sighs, beginning to back out of the parking space.
"Sammy got into everything while I was starting the car, sir."
"Well, it's basically all the same, Dean. If you don't want to eat after him I got an extra sandwich."
"Not the food, sir…"
He glances back, to see a suspect brown stain circling his youngest's mouth, and a matching splotch covering his new (well, new-to-him) windbreaker.
Sammy beams at him innocently, small teeth buried in a hashbrown held in both hands.
"You can have my juice, Dad," Dean ventures.
Covering a sigh, he smiles at his son's unselfishness. "It's fine, Dean, Sammy'll have to pee again in an hour and I'll get something then. But it's a very good thing that was crap coffee and it wasn't hot, do you understand how serious that could have been?"
Dean looks more shifty than concerned for his baby brother's safety, which is a dead giveaway, and he fights the sudden urge to laugh. "Tried it yourself first, did you?"
"Um. Yes, sir."
"Then had to pay off the witness to the crime?"
"Hello, have you seen him pitch a tantrum, Dad?"
"Doose," Sam pipes up, garbled around a mouthful of masticated potato.
John blinks, but Dean passes the toddler his juice cup without a word, holds it despite the whining protest while Sam sucks noisily out of the straw and then releases it with a small pop.
"Tank you."
"Yeah, yeah." Dean grudgingly replaces the cup in the cup-holder, and sends the child a glare over top of the sausage biscuit he's currently sinking his teeth into.
"Biksit?"
"No. Mine."
John stifles a laugh in his sandwich as he merges back onto the freeway.
"P'ease?"
"No."
"P'ease?"
"No, Sam, geez louise. Here, have another hashbrown or somethin'."
"P'ease, Dean?"
"Oh my God, Sam. Dad?"
John raises an unsympathetic eyebrow into the mirror. "Y'already gave the kid my frea-stinking coffee, Ace. Not givin' him my sandwich too – gotta resist those eyes all by your lonesome."
"P'eeeeeeeease, Dean?"
Yeah, like that was going to happen…
2.
Of course, it would be raining; like everything else in their screwed-up lives, this night is shaping up to be just another chapter in an epic saga of damnation, predestined for failure before he was even old enough to form words.
He stares out of the window at the water slashing across parked cars and buses, and wonders absently at how the world can seem so much darker than it did just four hours ago – and to make things even better, if he thinks much past the remainder of the night, he's going to have a panic attack to end all panic attacks.
Still over an hour of waiting to go, and then nearly fourteen hours on a bus across the country – all for what? Can he even succeed in this, the ultimate middle finger at what's become a paternal-dictated destiny? What if he fails miserably, where will he go then? It's not like he can just go home, if he doesn't make it – that bridge just collapsed in flames, salted and burned in tears and fire. There is no going back, only forward – and that, totally alone.
He swallows hard, and wishes not for the first time that he'd given Dean some warning sign before tonight; maybe, if he had, his brother wouldn't have been so blindsided by the shock that maybe he would have at least come to keep him company, or say a more lengthy goodbye. Even Dean would have defied their father long enough to do that, if he hadn't been reeling from the shock of Sam's revelation that he was for all intents and purposes walking off the job straight onto a California college campus for freshman orientation the following week.
A slight commotion behind him startles him out of his daze, but before he can turn around a heavy bag lands in his lap and its dripping wet owner squelches onto the bench opposite him.
"Freakin' rain! You would pick the crappiest night of the hurricane season to blow town," Dean mutters, shaking the collar of his leather coat with a scowl.
He stares at his brother in shock, blinking at the sudden appearance, jaw slightly agape.
"How long you got before your ride, kiddo?" Dean prompts him, uncharacteristically gentle.
"…About an hour? Dean, what're you doing here?"
His brother sighs, leans back against the wall. "Sam…" Dean drags a wet hand slowly down over his face, features pinched with the same pained look as before. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Sam hunches down in the seat, shutting down. Here he had thought maybe Dean had shown up to say goodbye. No, just playing mediator between him and Dad like always – John had probably sent him, in fact, to guilt Sam into coming back.
"If that's all you have to say, you could've just said it at the house, Dean," he says coldly, looking out the window at the lightning forking through the night sky. "Or did Dad send you because he's already lost my number? Has to send his best soldier to do the messenger work for him?"
"Damn it, Sam!" Dean's voice shatters the fragile peace of the late-night bus station, drawing too much attention to their deserted corner. They both duck their heads, apologetic, and Dean leans forward, anger glittering in his eyes. "For your frickin' information, Dad told me that if I knew you were thinking about this and I didn't do anything about it, then I could find somewhere else to sleep tonight, so screw you!"
Sam stares at him. "He what?"
Dean sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Dude, you are so not as subtle as you think you are, not to me," he says wearily. "You really think I've had no idea you were gettin' ready to bail on us? Really, Sam?"
He can barely breathe now, emotion curling tight and painful in his chest. "You knew? You knew, Dean?"
"Not that you were headin' as far from us as you could get – really, Sam, Cali-freakin'-fornia? – but that you were leaving? Yeah, Sammy. I knew. Didn't think you'd drop the bomb like this, but all the signs were there, and like I said, you're not as good at hidin' things as you think, not from me."
"But…why didn't you…"
Green eyes lift from the floor to meet his, full of sadness and what looks to Sam's practiced gaze like guilt. "I was just, I dunno, hopin' you'd change your mind – or at least that Dad would get his head out of his ass and change his. Shoulda known you were both too stubborn to do either one."
Sam swallows hard. "Dean, you know it's not – I'm not trying to –"
Dean's lips quirk at the corner. "I know, Sammy. Why d'you think I never said anything? I got your back, man, 's long as you need me." His eyes sadden suddenly. "Which apparently isn't gonna be much longer, is it? God, I can't believe that."
"Dean…"
His brother clears his throat loudly, ignoring him. "Anyway, I dunno what all you need, since I dunno what crap nerds like you even do all day," Dean continues, in a more brisk, cheerful tone, "but I figure you need that at least." He indicates the smart leather bag still sitting unnoticed on Sam's lap. Sam peeks curiously, and gapes at the brand-new laptop sitting inside.
"Dean, seriously – thank you, but where did you get the money for that?"
"Pssh, that you can thank Mr. Jacob Merriweather and his shiny new credit card for," Dean waves off his gratitude with a smirk. "No big."
Sam curiously pulls on the corner of an envelope sticking out of an inner pocket, and his brother's tone changes. "Now that, is actually from me. No credit fraud, Sam, scout's honor."
"You were never a Boy Scout," Sam replies dryly.
"Well…I coulda been. If there were merit badges for Awesomeness."
"Holy sh…" Sam bites off the sudden exclamation, eyes widening as he sees the amount of cash inside the envelope. He glances hastily around to make sure no one was watching to see him carrying that amount of money; years of practice have taught him that is just asking to be mugged later. "Dean, what the hell!"
Dean frowns. "Dude, getting a full ride doesn't take care of your migraine meds or books or…geez, sheets and blankets and those crappy college-name-hoodie-things and bus fares – you're gonna need stuff and if you've registered under your real name I can't send a credit card with you. And sorry, kiddo, but you're not gettin' Baby."
Sam chokes back a watery laugh. "Dean, there's like four thousand dollars here – what did you do, knock over a couple liquor stores or something?"
A snort of laughter. "Nah. Been saving it ever since you checked out that How to Write a Killer College Application Essay book from the library when you were sixteen, man," he said quietly. "I know Mom would have started a college fund for you, and I think Dad at one point had one – pretty sure he spent it a long time ago on weapons or something. Somebody had to make sure you had something to get you started."
He blinks back tears. "That shouldn't be your job, Dean."
"It damn well should be, because nobody does it better," is the indignant reply.
"Not gonna argue that much," he whispers, blinking hard.
"Besides," Dean continues, smirking, "about $800 of it I took out of Dad's dresser like three hours ago, 's from his last Vegas trip I think. It's the least he owes you. Buy yourself a new phone and lose his number if you want – just make sure you send the new number to me…deal?"
Dean's last few words are muffled by a distant clap of thunder and an armful of desperate, more than slightly terrified eighteen-year-old, who doesn't release his choking hold until the loudspeaker overhead announces his bus is boarding.
Sam jerks back, pale and shaky, and totally not sure if he can go through with this – but there is no going back from it now, so he has to, right?
"One more thing, Sammy," Dean says, pulling out another card. He holds the tiny brown envelope between two fingers, grinning widely though Sam can see the glint of mirroring tears deep in the back of his eyes. "You stop in Denver for two hours tomorrow morning, and there's gotta be one of those foo-foo coffee places you like in walking distance. Eat breakfast, and something with more than just white eggs on it, y'hear me?"
Sam swipes the Starbucks card and shoves it into his inside shirt pocket, conjuring up a shaky smile.
"And remember," Dean continues, steering him toward his exit with an arm maybe just a little too tight around his shoulder, "you never make a girl pay for her own coffee, and you always get her the biggest one even if she orders a skinny light no-whip whatever. I know dude, it doesn't make sense to me either…"
In Denver, Sam buys a GoFone, and spends one of his precious and expensive picture messages sending his brother a photo of his ham-and-cheese sandwich and tall pumpkin spice latte (apparently in ski country, they get holiday drinks a little earlier than the rest of the country, who knew).
WTF even is that, is Dean's response, but it comes almost immediately, and he suddenly knows that everything is going to be, maybe not all right – but okay.
He can do this.
3.
His first year flies by in a blur of unfamiliar culture shock, classes, and job searches (Dean's money thankfully carried him all the way through the beginning of the winter break, and he has little difficulty finding a job then when he actually has time to go hunting for one).
He is still too young for bartending, obviously, the favored occupation of most upper level students at Stanford simply for its well-paying benefits, but he's fortunate enough to stumble into the right bookstore at the right time one chilly evening in mid-November, and perhaps looks pathetic enough when telling the owner he has no home to return to for the holidays and is looking for employment, that he gets hired on the spot (his eager discussion with said owner on the facets and factual inaccuracies of various works of Arthurian literature probably has something to do with it as well).
It pays for his upcoming second-semester textbooks and helps him pitch in with his roommates for a meal out once in a while, and generally helps with the little expenses he had no idea he would need but Dean wisely had, primarily thanks to having to stretch the cash they had while growing up. Who knew, that toothpaste and ink pens and freaking haircuts were so expensive?
He tries to call Dean's phone Christmas Eve morning, but it goes straight to voicemail; and they've never been good about leaving or listening to those. He sends a short text message instead, nothing too personal in case his father indulges in his usual disregard for his children's privacy and is the one to read it instead.
Christmas Eve he's offered to close the bookstore, since he has nowhere to be, and so he's stumbling out of his dormitory that evening after a short nap when a box outside his door nearly sends him sprawling. Curious, he drags it back inside, as it's addressed to him. It's not been sent through the postal service, just handwritten on the outside, and clinks dangerously as he sets it down on the tiny dining table.
Opening it, he blinks at the contents, and then snorts with laughter, knowing immediately it can only come from one person.
"Only you, big brother," he sighs, lifting out the four-pack of Red Bulls. A warm, dark green fleece jacket – The North Face, he recognizes immediately, from the expensive name brands the more preppy students run around in all day here – wraps around them, and an envelope falls from its pocket when he shakes it out and holds it up against himself.
He drops the jacket immediately and grabs the envelope, nearly shreds it in his eagerness to get it open – but there's no note inside, just four one-hundred dollar bills.
Sighing, he nonetheless smiles, trades his threadbare denim jacket for the smart fleece one, and heads out to work, alone on Christmas Eve.
It's a half-hour before closing time, and surprisingly enough there's no one in the store except the couple drinking hot chocolate in the tiny coffee shop (he's doing cashier and barista double-duty tonight); most likely, everyone is last-minute shopping at the enormous shopping center up the street, with its huge department stores and warmly-lit display windows.
His phone finally vibrates in his pocket, and he pops behind the coffee machine to peek at it.
Sorry, dude, on a hunt n TX. Stay warm, ace ur finals next mo. Then have some fun 4 god's sake. :)
He snorts, pockets the phone, and glances up to see a customer waiting patiently at the register. Crap.
"So sorry, how can I help you," he stammers, because holy crap, what gorgeous hair underneath that cute little hat. And those eyes. And…she just gave him her order and he was ogling, oh God.
"Sorry, what?"
Blonde eyebrows arch slightly, and a small grin appears where there was only study-worn weariness before. "Tall skinny vanilla cappuccino? That was my order, not an observation…Sam."
He glances down, stupidly, at his name tag, and then her words register, and he blushes to the roots of his hair before hastily pounding the order into the register, with rather more force than necessary.
"Three-forty-five," he manages, and it only takes him four tries to get the credit card through the reader.
Thankfully, she seems to find it amusing more than anything else, and he scuttles off to make her drink, hoping the milk steamer will sufficiently hide him.
"Jessica," he hears over his head as he stoops to get the milk out of the fridge.
"Whzuh?" he gulps.
A blond head appears leaning over his counter, blue eyes twinkling mischievously over a…very tight sweater he now has a close-up of. "My name, if you want to write it on the cup."
"Oh. Right! Yes." He coughs, and scrambles to his feet, hastening to pour the milk into the appropriate container.
Jessica appears to take pity on him and ambles off to look at a display of boxed chocolates, giving him time to take a breath, and he suddenly remembers something, hurrying to make the rest of the drink before she returns and further distracts him.
She pops up again just as he's finishing the vanilla drizzle, and he jumps, making the holiday-ish Star of David he was attempting in the foam turn out to be more of a lopsided starfish with sciatica, but hey, he tried.
"Oh, I only ordered a tall," she says, frowning slightly.
Sam shrugs, fidgets slightly to fit the lid on just so. "It's Christmas – on the house," he replies, pushing the drink across the counter with a smile.
Jessica takes the drink, hesitantly, still frowning. "You did still make it non-fat, though?"
Sam leans one elbow on the counter, and only hopes it looks smooth. "Yes, not that you need it."
This time it's she that blushes, the frown turning into a smile. She takes the drink, glances at the side of it, and the smile widens. Sam breathes a silent sigh of relief.
"C'mon, man, there's other people here an' it's, like, freezing outside!" A bleach-blonde youth in a pastel sweater whines from the cash register. Sam shoots the guy a glare that could peel paint, but when he turns around, his beautiful customer is already leaving.
"Have a merry Christmas, Sam," Jessica says softly, and waves at him before slipping out the door into the night.
When he receives a voicemail on his phone ten minutes later thanking him for the drink and inviting him to a New Year's Eve party, he resists the urge to embarrass himself by doing a little happy dance in the middle of the bookstore floor. He does, however, text his brother just after midnight to share his success.
Gave a girl my phone # 2nite.
8O Finally! How?
On the side of a coffee cup. Smooth, y/y?
U have learned well, my padawan.
Thk u, my master.
BTW she hot?
Dude yes
That's my boy. Merry Xmas to YOU, kiddo. ;)
Lol you perv. Stay safe, Dean.
You too, if ya know what I mean. ;) Not that eager to be an uncle yet, dude.
NOT WHAT I MEANT, DEAN!
4.
It's wrong, all wrong. In all his life, he doesn't think he's ever had so many brand-new things – and to have them now, to get them just because everything valuable in his entire world just literally went up in smoke?
It's wrong.
Dean's eyes watch him sadly from their corner as he listlessly tries on the jacket, mechanically notes that the sleeves are too short (they always are), says they're fine (they never are), refuses Dean's offer to look at a different color (black is fine, doesn't show blood and dirt and ash – cinders and smoke and ashes – as easily), shrugs when Dean asks if he wants a warmer coat in case they go further north (he doesn't really remember snow, four years since he's seen it, other than that disastrous skiing trip with Jess last Christmas).
So far he's gotten two pairs of jeans, three flannel shirts, a jacket, socks and underwear, and a pair of boots – all new, Dean refused to go to the thrift store even though Sam remembers, four years down the line, they never shop anywhere else – and an off-the-rack suit for the funeral, which needs let out in the pant hem and taken in at the shoulders and which Sam refused to wait to have altered, because the only person he cared about looking good for is gone, gone forever, and she took his heart with her, up in flames on the ceiling of their apartment.
Dean finally gives up on trying to coax an opinion out of him, and with a sigh leaves him in the Impala while he hits up a Target store for the necessities – sleepwear, toiletries, all the little things Sam didn't realize he needed until he was standing helpless in the middle of Dean's tiny hotel room last night, only just realizing the only personal possessions he currently owned were the clothes he was wearing – all smelling horribly of smoke and ash – and the rubber bracelet he and Dean each owned one of a matched pair of. Nothing more.
He had nothing; no home, no possessions, no girlfriend (almost fiancée). Nothing.
The flood of panic that had driven him to his knees last night has now faded to a dull sense of nothingness, a dark lack of anything that simply shrouds him in its void. He stares aimlessly out the window at the tranquil scenery of Palo Alto's twilight, wondering how the sun could be setting with such beautiful coloration when all the beauty has been sucked out of his world, leaving it cold and empty.
He doesn't even twitch when the driver's door creaks open and then shuts behind his brother with a loud slam. A rustling of bags under his feet, and a weary sigh. A gentle hand, tucking unbrushed hair behind his ear.
"Sammy, you doin' okay?"
He doesn't bother to respond, because the nothingness should be answer enough; can't Dean see that if he acknowledges anything, then more pain will just start leaking back in, and he will break down again?
"Sam, you gotta snap outta this. You're startin' to scare me, man." A hand clamps firmly on his arm, tugging him away from the window. His head turns of its own accord, eyes blinking listlessly, and Dean's worried face fills his vision. "You with me in there?"
"Yes, Dean," he sighs, leaning his head back on the leather seat.
"Okay. Look, I got everything you need, so we can head back to the motel to crash. I was thinking, maybe we could check out, and go to one of those chain places, with nicer beds, maybe a free breakfast…a swimming pool or something…give you a few days to get your bearings. What do you think?"
Dean sounds nervous, and he lifts his head incredulously. "A few days isn't going to make any difference, Dean," he says harshly. "Jess is still going to be dead, and the bastard that killed her still somewhere out there, running totally free. You think a frickin' pool is going to help me deal with that?"
He wants to bite his own tongue off at the pain and hurt that flickers through Dean's expression before it's carefully schooled behind a mask of patient indifference. "It can't hurt, can it?" he replies quietly.
Sam deflates, slowly scrubs both hands across his face. "I'm sorry," he moans. Fingers press into his eye sockets, try to will away the flashing images scarred into his retinas. It doesn't work. "I didn't…Dean…"
"Dude, chill. It's okay." A hand closes around his wrist, gently tugs until he quits clawing at his own eyes. "Here, try to at least get something in your stomach, yeah? We'll decide later about the motel."
A cold cup is pressed into his hand, along with a napkin-wrapped pastry of some kind – not the healthiest of dinners, but probably all that was left at the coffee shop beside the Target store this time of evening. Sam takes a dry bite of the pastry and mechanically washes it down with the cold drink, then glances down at it in some surprise.
"Good, yeah?" Dean's eyebrows waggle hopefully.
"Not bad," he admits, grudgingly taking another sip.
"Got enough whipped cream and chocolate crap in it to choke a cow," his brother observed, making a face as he sips his own, very black, coffee. "But the girl at the counter recommended it as her favorite 'comfort drink,' so there y'go."
Sam glances over at his brother, gaze softening, but Dean doesn't meet his eyes. He takes another drink, nibbles at the scone in his other hand.
"It's good, Dean." It's actually so sweet his teeth are squeaking together, but he doesn't have the heart to tell his brother that.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," he answers, and for the first time in the last forty-eight hours, he sees the worry wrinkles smooth out from around his brother's eyes. "Thanks, bro."
5.
Sam is not anywhere near as amused as Dean thinks he should be, obviously, to be stopping for dinner in an Oklahoma town named Greasy – honest-to-God – and it takes all of his not-inconsiderable self-control to refrain from putting his brother's head through the flimsy walls of the restaurant.
Restaurant being a generous term for the Greasy Spoon Diner and Bakery, aptly named after the town itself (or perhaps for the layer of film coating the formica). The menu peels off the tabletop with a sickening thwick when Sam tries to flip it over in vain search of something under a day's allotment of caloric intake, and he shudders visibly.
Dean just rolls his eyes, intent upon demolishing a starter plate of nachos. "Just order a damn salad or something, Sam," he finally snarls, animal-like, not looking up from a half-dozen local newspapers. Sam watches in horrified fascination as a jalapeno hops out of his brother's mouth back onto the plate, before meeting its unfortunate end seconds later on the next chip in the line-up.
Even if it hadn't been nine months to the day since he dropped a cup of coffee on the floor of a hospital and tripped over his father's body, he still wouldn't be hungry after that show.
"I'm good," he manages, and only asks for some toast and juice to go.
Their small horde of cash having run dangerously low, they spend the remainder on fueling up the car and stashing some snacks in a plastic bag under Sam's feet, then keep going, not having seen anything in the papers that warrants sleeping roadside in this deserted area of the country.
Dean is used to driving through the night, more so now than before – Sam still is a little wary about getting behind the wheel at night, and who wouldn't be after being T-boned by a semi? And Dean has been sleeping even less now than he used to, his way of dealing being to drive out his pain, silent under the stars and sky. So they make one final stop after the last warning sign on the highway tells them it will be a good 300 miles until the next available station, and then he curls up against the passenger door while Dean settles in with a 32-ounce coffee and lapful of Doritos, points the car westward, and lets night fall on them, silent and starlit.
The peaceful rumble of the Impala's engine puts Sam to sleep quicker than any other sound he's ever heard, all his life – but as has been his struggle lately, his dreams are anything but tranquil, and he finds it difficult to remain asleep. Dean's eyes flicker to him every time he jerks awake, though he has the decency to not comment, only offers to turn the radio on. Sam declines.
Somewhere around the sixth hour into their westward drive, Sam is in the middle of a restless dream when the world suddenly explodes into a sudden shock of screeching brakes and painful impact, far too reminiscent of the accident those months ago.
His eyes fly open in terror as he jerks forward, slams into something warm and solid – not the dash, thank God, Dean's arm, it looks like – and flails wildly as he tries to brace himself. The car fishtails briefly, wailing madly as it rocks back and forth, accompanied by the sound of his brother's swearing rising above the noise.
It seems longer than the few seconds it probably is, because after just a moment longer, the car gives a juddering jolt and stops; his brother's arm drops, returns to grip the steering wheel white-knuckled.
But they're not smashed up, not even off the road –
They're fine.
He blows out a breath, adrenaline slowly fading out of his veins and throbbing head, leaving him heady with relief.
"Friggin' coyote!" Dean's yell out the half-open window shatters the fragile silence with cringe-worthy ire. "Swear to God, if you threw my Baby out of alignment in the middle of nowhere –"
Sam snorts a laugh, scrabbling slightly on the humid, sticky leather to pull himself back into upright position on the bench seat. "You hit it?" he asks, craning to look behind them.
"I don't think so," Dean mutters, shifting into park and flinging the door open to check the damage. "Stupid thing ran right outta nowhere into the road."
Sam watches in the swath of headlights as Dean crouches down to look at the bumper and hood, indulging each in a brief caress before climbing back into the car with a huff.
"Doesn't look like it. Swerved too quick, though, and skidded on this freakin' gravel – that's what threw us into that fishtail."
Sam tries to straighten his shirt, rucked up around his neck from his slide almost into the footwell. "Appreciate the soccer mom arm-save, bro," he ventures, his grin widening as Dean's cheeks burn.
"Shut up." The driver door slams shut with more force than is necessary, squealing disapproval. "Sorry, Baby," he mutters, reaching for the gearshift again. "Aw, for cryin' out loud – Sam!"
"What?"
A fumble in the dark under their feet, and then their smaller flashlight flicks on, nearly blinding him before the beam hits the dash in front of them.
Sam blinks. "Wow." A truly impressive curtain of milky brown is dribbling down their windshield, running in small rivulets into the vents and plip-plopping onto the floor mats.
"Awwww man!" Dean's tone is closer to a whine than any grown man's has a right to be. "That was some good joe, too!"
The radio suddenly fizzles, spits at them a bit, and Sam shoves a napkin vainly at the console, trying to mop up the mess before the thing's completely fried.
Dean is swearing like a sailor now, fumbling in the glove box – basically leaning over and squashing Sam to do it – for their emergency napkin stash, and now starts slapping the small and totally insufficient paper squares down all over the sticky dash, floor, and console in a vain attempt to stay the flow of coffee.
"You just had to get the giant one," Sam mutters, swiping at the windshield with his outer shirt, then turning his attention to the seat after he realizes they are both sitting in a largish splatter of the sticky liquid.
"Bigger's always better, Sam my man."
A suggestive eyebrow and leer is not at all what Sam wants to see when his brother is literally leaning over him, trying to mop up thirty ounces of coffee that he apparently dropped while pulling his 'soccer-mom-arm' act.
"You're a pig, Dean." A well-aimed elbow gets a shrill yelp and Dean scoots out of his immediate vicinity, betrayal on his face.
The whole car now smells like burned coffee with an overlay of cheap hazelnut. Sam's nose wrinkles against the pungent odor. "Ugh, we still have to drive another four hours in this?"
"Not like you smell any better, Mr. Breakfast Burrito." Dean plunks back down with a scowl, then squirms uncomfortably. "My butt's wet," he mutters, glaring blackly at the coffee-smeared windshield.
Sam can't help it, he laughs. It's just something about the way Dean says it, pouting like a two-year-old who just wet the bed or something, that triggers something inside him that he hasn't really felt in a very long time. They're stopped in the middle of a gravel road in the middle of nowhere, having just nearly hit a desert coyote, and with literally over a liter of coffee splattered all over the inside of his brother's precious car – and Dean is hunched over the steering wheel with his backside hovering an inch off the leather seat, craning his neck to scowl at the damp leather and yanking at his jeans as if that's going to somehow help now that they're soaked with coffee.
He laughs, long and hard, leaning back in the seat and curling his hands over his stomach because it hurts after not laughing for so long – there's not been much to laugh about lately. Laughs until they trail off into a fit of hiccupping giggles that he tries to hide behind one hand, because Dean is looking at him like he's just grown another head and horns to match.
"Sorry, dude." Sam chortles, wriggling upright in the seat again. He takes a deep breath – and realizes it's been months since he actually laughed like that…probably not since before Dad died. "'S just…anyway. Y'want me to get you another pair of jeans out of the trunk?"
Dean looks at him strangely for a minute. Then the irritated lines around his eyes soften into a self-deprecating grin, and he shakes his head, flicks the gearshift into Drive.
"Nah. I'll change when we stop next time."
Sam smiles out at the dark flatlands, knowing that's going to be several hours yet.
"'Sides, wouldn't want to deprive you of your entertainment."
"It is funny, you being all ewwww it's wet!"
"Dude, have you sat in wet jeans? They chafe, man!"
"Hmm. Y'know what I think?"
"No one cares what you think, Sam."
"I think Dean Winchester is a pretty pretty princess."
"I think Sam Winchester is going to be walking to Salt Lake City with no shoes if he doesn't shut his pie-hole for the next three hundred miles!"
6.
The Midwest and West hold too many memories, so when Sam wanders initially he wanders East (Go east, young man, go east – as far away from everything and everyone as you can, until you maybe drop off into the ocean unnoticed), wanders up and down the New England coast for a couple weeks. Knocks off a few zombies in Nantucket (Dean's voice rings in his head with filthy limericks all the while), disposes of a poltergeist in Rhode Island, researches a useless lead on Lilith in the woods of Vermont, pokes his head over the border into a Toronto spellwork shop just for the hell of it, treks back down through the Great Lakes region.
But his travels weren't just the aimless rambles of a grieving young man; no, they were calculated as well, as everything he does now – they had a purpose. And now, after two weeks, he is restocked – in ammunition, supplies, lore, and physically as well, despite his emotional desires to crawl into a hole and never come out; because no matter how unappealing it is, he knows he has to be in good physical strength to begin a one-man war.
And two weeks after he buries a pine box in a secluded, now forever sacred, wooded clearing in Pontiac, Illinois, Sam Winchester begins cutting a cold, brutal swath across the United States, declaring open season on the entire demonic forces of the Hell that claimed his brother's soul.
He makes one final stop before heading westward, out of duty more than kindness, courtesy more than need – but Dean would have kicked his ass coast to coast had he dropped off the grid without saying goodbye to Bobby, and so he pulls up one muggy evening outside Singer Salvage in South Dakota, the Impala rumbling to a stop under his less familiar but no less loving hands.
The man has always treated them like sons, and while Sam has no idea what Dean went through at Cold Oak he can only be glad Bobby was there for Dean, if he was anything like Bobby has been for Sam, now. This is and will forever be, the single biggest failure of Sam's entire life, and while another's grief doesn't take away the guilt at all, it helps just a little to share the burden.
They haven't spoken since their falling out over Sam refusing to give Dean a hunter's funeral, but it doesn't prevent the gruff hunter from giving him a hug, more warm and instantly forgiving than their blood father had ever greeted them – the most important reason why Sam has always loved coming back here, even when it's been after he's screwed something up.
Bobby glances at the running car just behind them, looks back at Sam with a questioning eyebrow.
"I'm headed west, Bobby," he says quietly. "There are demon signs in Wyoming…they match almost exactly the ones that hit Pontiac when Lilith arrived."
A weary sigh falls into the stillness, accompanied by the chirp of late evening crickets. "Sam, are you sure that's the best idea, right now? Y'got to have a target painted on your back, and the whole hunting world by now knows some high-level demon just took out a damn Winchester – y'got friends, allies at least, out there that could help you, if you just ask, kid."
Sam smiles, a sad sort of amusement that looks more painful than anything else. "Not a kid anymore, Bobby. You can't expect me to sit and play Go Fish with you for the next couple of months until things cool down."
The man removes his cap uneasily, scratches his head, and then replaces the hat with a sigh. "I know, Sam. Dunno why I expected anything different."
Sam's lips tighten briefly, but he just nods, shrugging.
"Just…don't go doin' anything stupid, all right?"
Sam's lips twist mockingly. "Stupid like Dean did, Bobby?" he asks bitterly, walking a few steps away toward the house, his back toward the older man.
He feels a hand on his shoulder a moment later, and tenses under its gentle grip. "Stupid's relative when it comes to the people you love, Sam," Bobby says, the words dropping softly, wisely, in the stillness of the night. "And God knows that boy loved you more than anybody'd think was possible."
Sam shrugs off the hand, and makes a quick dash for the man's rickety bathroom, to hide the tears he refuses to let fall – the time for that is over, set aside and compartmentalized. Now, he has work to do, and there's going to be Hell to pay. (Rather, Hell is going to pay, and pay dearly, for what it took from him.)
Ten minutes later, he's on his way back outside, and is stopped once more by Bobby Singer, who wisely ignores everything that just happened, only hands him a paper bag of sandwiches and thermos of coffee for the road, and a small box, sloppily taped up in what looks like old Sunday comics.
"What's this?" he asks, puzzled.
Singer grins fondly. "Found it upstairs in you boys' room when I got home, along with this." He hands Sam a card, with SAM scrawled on the outside in unmistakable handwriting. "I'm thinkin' your brother knew your birthday wasn't gonna be pretty, Sam. Tried to do what he could to leave you a little something at least."
Sam blinks down at the card and small package, shocked that Dean would have thought that far ahead to leave it behind when they left for Pontiac – and yet not shocked. Dean loved him, no question – but they both knew, deep down, that it wasn't a matter of having faith in Sam's ability to break the deal; there just was no breaking it. Sam had made a promise to save his brother, and had broken it – not for lack of trying, but had still broken it.
Dean had known it would happen, and had still loved him regardless.
Well, revenge is worth something at least, and Sam still has that.
He climbs back in the car, silent and tense, and sets the items on the seat. Waves goodbye to Bobby, and doesn't look back.
When he pulls over to re-fuel a few hours later, he opens the card, which is just a generic picture of a puppy with a hat on it, scrawled inside with Happy Birthday, Sammy, and underneath that, the two simple words, No Regrets. Sam carefully folds the card back up, and tucks it safely into the passenger visor.
Then he opens the package, which turns out to be a box containing what it says is one of those personalized travel coffee mugs people can order online and have any message printed on. Curious (and cautious), Sam opens the box, expecting some ridiculous or profane message to be cheerfully printed in block letters across the surface of the mug. Instead it reads…
My brother went to Hell, and all I got was this lousy coffee mug!
Sam stares at the mug in silence for a full thirty seconds, before dropping his head onto the steering wheel and bursting into a fit of deep, painful belly laughter that eventually borders on hysterical giggling. No doubt, the truckers around the other gas pumps think he's a complete nut job, as he laughs until he cries a little, and cries until he starts laughing again, at his brother's completely and wholly inappropriate sense of humor.
Oh my God, Dean…
He can almost hear the "Too soon?" echoing smugly in the confines of the Impala, and its comforting familiarity gives him the strength at last to pour the contents of the thermos into the mug and toast his absent brother, vowing that the message will be a promise, not a statement.
Someday, it will be past tense – he is getting Dean out of Hell.
And he doesn't really care how.
7.
Sam's not expecting this time to be any different.
Why should he? And why should it be? Plain and simple, he's an addict who relapsed – who wasn't strong enough to resist the temptation, and had to be put on lockdown yet again, just like before. And not even for something normal, like alcohol or drugs, no – he had to be the freak yet again.
Sometimes, he really doesn't think this life is even worth it, he really doesn't.
Withdrawal sucks, of course; the physical symptoms combine with the mental in a way nobody can truly understand. But the worst is the emotional repercussions – and they are worse this time, so, so much worse. At least last time, he was too pissed at his brother and Cas and the world in general to be more than furious to begin with, and then equally furious once he got out.
This time? He's just ashamed. Embarrassed. Scared.
He really wishes it wasn't another four hours to Sioux Falls, or that Cas wasn't still constipated (physically apparently as well as angelically, thanks to TMI the angel had volunteered about sixty miles back) and could angel-zap them back to Bobby's right-the-hell-now.
He can tell the symptoms are already well underway, and there's no way he's going to survive another four hours in the car, he's just not. He's probably going to just die right here, in front of his brother and the Angel of Thursday or whatever Cas's name really means, he can't think straight right now, because his brain's probably turning to mush.
They'll be cutting it close, arriving just when he's getting dangerous – and if his powers start acting up in the car, that could be really, really bad.
A cold – really, really cold – hand appears magically on his forehead.
"Jesus, you're burning up. Cas?"
"Dean, I told you –"
"You said they were returning slowly!"
"That is correct."
"So can you zap us back to Bobby's yet?"
"The amount of energy required to transport a vehicle is considerably more than to do so with living tissues."
"So…if we ditch the car, you could take us now?"
Sam raises his head – when did he end up lying down, anyway? And how is he fitting on the front seat without squashing Dean into the driver's door? – in shock, because Dean is carelessly offering to abandon his Baby on South Dakota back roads?
"Not safely, Dean, I –"
"Is it 'cause there's too many of us? Could you get him home now and I just meet you there?"
Sam tries to protest, because after all, Cas is the one who opened the panic room last time this happened, and Dean still doesn't know that – does he really want the same guy taking Sam home?
"Dean, it is not the number, rather it is that the trip simply cannot be made safely with my powers at the level they are. I cannot guarantee that we would arrive in…original and healthy condition."
"What, like a transporter accident?"
Sam snickers drunkenly into his brother's jeans leg. "Last thing we need's evil twins of us runnin' around," he mutters.
A hand gently pats his hair, sort of like a cat, which is weird but actually kind of nice, and he closes his eyes again.
"I do not understand that reference."
"Of course you don't. Damn it." Underneath them, the Impala rumbles a low protest to what must be Dean's foot on the accelerator, but she obeys as always, lunging forward under his command.
The sudden motion makes what little blood is left in Sam's stomach swirl around dangerously, however, and his fingers tighten on whatever well-worn fabric they're gripping. Back in the diner, he'd fallen to his knees as soon as Famine was dead, and shoved his fingers down his throat immediately trying to throw up the blood he'd drunk, but after only a few productive heaves very little had come up and Dean had pulled him away, patting him on the shoulder and telling him to stop, that it was okay, that they had to go.
Unfortunately, he doesn't think he got it all, because something in there is sloshing around with every acceleration, back and forth, swish-swish, swosh-swosh.
He swallows hard, and the fingers in his hair tighten slightly. "You gonna hurl, Sam?"
He raises one shoulder in an uncertain shrug.
"Dude, not on me you're not." Sam chokes a protest as he's shoved upright, the world spinning around in a dizzying maelstrom of color. He groans and covers his eyes with both hands, and the whirling thankfully stops. "Am I pullin' over here, Sam?"
"Nooooo…" He breathes in, slowly, and lets it out just as slowly, feels the nausea fade a little.
"Perhaps we should make a stop at the travel-mart up ahead."
"We're not stopping, Cas."
"Sam might benefit from some fresh air and the beverage which you humans I believe call Ginger Ale."
"Guh." Sam's stomach flips, and he crashes back down to his previous position with a moan.
A weary sigh above his head. "We're still almost four hours out, Cas, we're not stopping."
"Dean."
"What!"
There's a slight crinkle, and then a pause.
"You did not."
"I was given to understand this is the proper medication for my affliction. Given the amount of raw beef I consumed in comparison to a normal human, I thought that triple the recommended dosage would be appropriate. It…is proving to be most efficacious. I am in need of a…'rest stop.'"
"Dude, you – you – just, gross. Fine, we'll stop. But if you're in there more than five minutes, I'm leaving your disgusting ass, hear me?"
Sam thinks the hallucinations are probably starting, because there's no way he should feel this comfortable when he deserves to be tied down and locked away for drinking demon blood, against his will though it had been. He'd dozed off, he thought, though perhaps that had been a hallucination too, because now he's still in the same position he was before, but much more comfortable.
He shifts with a sigh, dislodging what must be an ice-pack tucked around his neck, and blinks slowly, finds himself staring at the soft lights of the radio, tuned to a soft rock station playing at a just barely audible level. Slight movement tells him he's lying on an actual pillow now, not just Dean's leg, one of those small travel ones filled with rice or something, and there's a soft blanket tucked around his legs, crunched up as they are on the passenger seat.
There's a pleasant lack of energy spread throughout his limbs that tells him he probably has been drugged…yeah, he remembers now, outside the travel mart, suggesting Ibuprofen-PM to Dean, both for the pain and to slow his brain down so hopefully his telekinesis and so on wouldn't manifest before they got to Bobby's.
He grunts, wrinkles his nose because it itches, then wobbles upright, narrowly missing Dean's elbow when he sits up, slumps in the middle of the bench seat.
Dean is gnawing absently on a three-foot-long beef jerky stick, but removes it, startled. "Thought you were out cold, there."
"Where are we?" he asks, already feeling the fidgety, crawling feeling in his veins – the worst symptoms are not far off, no matter what measures they take.
"Less than 50 miles out of Sioux Falls, about an hour from Bobby's," Dean replies. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirror. "Yo, Mr. Ex-Lax, you doin' okay back there?"
Sam can't see Castiel's expression from his position, but the smirk that crosses Dean's face tells him what the angel must be giving his brother. It's silly, but familiar, and the comforting normality of it washes over him in a warm wave.
He suddenly feels so very, very tired, and doesn't even realize that he's tipped sideways until Dean's shoulder is bumping him, not unkindly. "Dude. Sam? You probably got a half-hour, max, until you start seein' things that aren't there, so you should probably stay awake."
Sam mumbles a dissent, which earns him a firm elbow in the ribs. He struggles upright, tangled in the mini-mart blanket and scowling his displeasure.
Dean only shakes his head with a sigh. "Got you one of those frappo-whatever things, if you want it," he ventures, nudging a bag under their feet with one boot-toe.
Sam fishes the plastic bag up and removes the bottle. He wrinkles his nose momentarily at the flavor – caramel, the one flavor he's never been a fan of, its sharp, unusually coffee-heavy tints too strong for his liking. But he's not going to complain; he's lucky Dean even bothered to get him anything – lucky he didn't make him find his own ride back to Bobby's, for that matter.
He looks up to feel Dean's eyes on him, a knowing expression in them, one tinged with resigned sadness. His brother clears his throat and then looks back out at the road. "Figured that was the only one strong enough to…y'know. Get the taste out of your mouth," he says gruffly.
Sam stares at him for a moment in stunned silence, because the words aren't the accusation it could so easily be – none of this, none of the last few hours has been. Dean is being…
…is being his big brother, again.
He twists the cap off the bottle in silence, takes a long drink of the bitter brew.
"Famine might have been right about you, you know, Dean," he says after a while.
Dean's knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.
Still huddled in the blanket, hands shaking around his precious drink, Sam looks over at his brother, leans forward slightly in his earnestness. Dean needs to hear him, and he can only hope Dean really listens this time, if no other.
"But if you're 'empty inside', like he says? Dean, it's only because you give yourself too much to everyone around you. All the time, man – you just…you've always done that, always given up everything. For me, for Dad…for everyone you care about." Sam sniffs, hating that his control is quickly leaving along with the painkillers; he's going to be a mess in a very short time. "Someday you've gotta learn to be selfish and save yourself, man."
Dean's eyes suddenly glint in the light of a setting sun-beam, as his profile relaxes in surprise – obviously that's not anywhere close to what he thought Sam was about to say. A half-smile tugs at his lips as he glances sideways.
"Drink your girly coffee, Samantha."
Sam does.
8.
Sam's been sleeping an awful lot lately.
Dean's assured him it's just a side effect of the Trials, and of being sick. ("First way I could tell you were comin' down with something as a kid, Sam – when you stopped fightin' me on naps.") That sleeping for twelve or fourteen or eighteen hours a day is somehow normal if you're battling a supernatural force that is slowly eating you up from the inside.
Sam privately has researched enough to know that whatever this is, he's probably not going to survive it. His symptoms point to some supernatural variant of leukemia, tuberculosis, possibly lung cancer, myeloma, or any and all combinations of the above. Regardless of what it is, it's purging the demon blood from his body and burning through his cellular structure at an alarming rate. He hasn't told Dean the entire truth, that his normal bodily functions have slowed to the point that he doesn't really understand how he's still alive without the aid of machines.
Dean thinks he's not eating because he's not hungry or everything smells and tastes horrible; that's only partly true. He also simply can't digest much of anything properly anymore. He knows enough about biology and medicine to know his organs are slowly shutting down, and they are running out of time much faster than Dean thinks.
But they've finished two of the trials, are just rounding the plate toward Home at this point. He just has to hang on until the end, and then see what happens, right?
Easier said than done, unfortunately, though Dean doesn't seem to think so.
He can hear the man in question right now, puttering around the kitchen. A thud of heavy bass blasts through the Bunker corridors, accented by the clang of various pots and pans as he prepares what no doubt will be another breakfast Sam has to pretend to eat.
He stumbles into the brightly-lit room, yawning behind one hand, the other rubbing grit from his eyes, in time to see that apparently his brother is engaged in what looks like a friendly wrestling match with a small redhead over the iPod controls.
Charlie finally comes out on top with a small crow of victory, dancing away with the iPod held out of Dean's reach, only because he has smelled the eggs burning and has decided that is a more important battle.
"I have to say, Dean, I'm surprised your over-compensatory macho manliness is confident enough to buy a hot pink iPod," she says, quickly riffling through its contents. "Even if it is, like, a Stone-Age model."
Dean's ears turn the color of the music player in question as he adds salt to the eggs.
Charlie squints at him over the screen. "Oh, my God. Did you swipe it from some monster victim's house or something?"
"She was a freakin' witch and we'd just ganked her, not like she was gonna use it in the afterlife!"
"Ew. Just…ew." Charlie clicks a button on the instrument and places it back on the iDock. "There. Let me introduce you to the wonders of Pandora, boys."
Dean notices Sam for the first time as he finally shakes his head at their antics and silently slides into a seat at the table. "You ok, little brother?"
Sam nods. "Pandora, huh?" he asks curiously.
"Yup." Charlie pops the p, looking pleased with herself. "You'll like this, Sam. That way when driver picks the music, you can at least thumbs-down the songs you hate the most and they'll never come on the radio station again!"
"Hey!"
Sam chuckles, and raises an eyebrow as bubble-gum pop music starts pouring out of the iDock's speakers. "Somehow I doubt Dean chose that," he says dryly, as the peppy strains of a Katy Perry song suddenly blast through the kitchen, causing Dean to jump and drop a fork into the bacon skillet.
Charlie smirks, and fiddles with the stations, ignoring Dean's swearing and yelped owowowow in the background as he tries to fish out the fork without getting burned by bacon grease.
Ten minutes of arguing later, they've compromised on an 80s station, and Sam is watching with amusement as Dean tries to flip pancakes like he's seen on what can only be cheesy western movies, because he doesn't think actual pancakes can be thrown four feet into the air, actually stay in one piece on the way back down, and still be edible.
Charlie gives him a commiserating pat on the shoulder as she whirls by, dancing to Livin' on a Prayer. Sam tries not to laugh as she pulls Dean along with her to the refrigerator, or tries to anyway.
"Whoa there, sweetheart, Dean Winchester does not dance."
"You're right, he doesn't – he sucks at it," she retorts, hands on her hips. "Sam?"
One hand emerging from his blanket-wrap, Sam waves with two fingers, smiling. "I'm good."
"Hmph." Charlie hands Dean the milk and juice cartons and gives him a shove toward the table. "Drinks, dude."
Dean rolls his eyes and sets them on the table before moving over to the coffee maker. "You want decaf if you're goin' back to sleep, Sam?" he asks, pulling down the can of grounds.
Sam is mid-yawn, so it takes him by surprise when their red-headed pseudo-sister turns from the bowl of scrambled eggs with a look of surprise. "Since when did you start liking coffee, Sam?"
Both Winchesters blink.
"Uh…I didn't. Don't. Like it, I mean."
"You what." Dean says, eyebrows raised. "You've been drinking it since you were like thirteen."
"Well, yeah, but not because I like it. It was just…there, it has caffeine, and it's not as bad for you as soda."
"But…" This appears to be a Big Deal, as Dean now has an extremely wounded look on his face, looking between Sam and Charlie in dismay as he protests, "How could I not know that?"
Speaking of, Sam hasn't had enough caffeine to deal with this. "Excuse me?"
"Dude, it's been like twenty years and I didn't know that!" Dean turns on Charlie, whose eyebrows rise guiltily over the forkful of eggs she is sampling. "How did you know, Your Highness?"
Those eyes roll ceiling-ward. "Dudes. I read. Along with everyone else in like, the entire world who didn't have any idea that those Supernatural books were RPF. Or, RP non-F, I guess…anyway." She shakes her head, red hair flying. "Point is, it's in there, just a stupid little factoid somewhere near the beginning. Nobody's encroaching on your big bro status, dude, so chill."
Dean does a double take, then scowls at her, while Sam hides his grin in a glass of orange juice, which unfortunately triggers another coughing fit deep in his lungs.
"What are you laughing at, pneumonia boy?"
"Dean!"
Sam only laughs harder at Charlie's scandalized exclamation. He's no doubt going to be completely worn out before breakfast is even over, but it is going to be so worth it…
9.
Sam is a man of his word, and he is regretting that this morning, as he indeed did get quietly and magnificently drunk as hell last night, thanks to the Men of Letters' quite impressive stash of decades-old alcohol. Castiel took himself off somewhere around Sam's third bottle, after admonishing him to remember to at least pass out on his back so that he did not further damage his shoulder, and Sam is grateful for the luck that at least made that happen, as his stomach is rebelling enough as it is without the added inducement of agonizing cramps from a once-broken, twice-reset dislocation.
Thankfully, he hadn't been quite stupid enough to drink on an entirely empty stomach, as he has been so many times in the past few months, and had at least had the intelligence to eat half a burger and stock his bedroom with water and aspirin before locking himself and half the Men of Letters' whiskey stash inside after shoving his brother's dinner into his unsteady hands and then skittering away like a frightened animal, ashamed that he can't quite look Dean in the eyes for fear they won't be the color he hopes – knows – has faith, that they are now.
He's managed to keep his indulgence where it belongs so far, small favors, though his head is threatening to explode, and even after downing two Tylenol-3's both it and his shoulder are not improving; he's going to have to get the heavy stuff, the prescription meds he's been refusing to take, from the bathroom medicine cabinet.
Cole's delicate ministrations and consequent having to have the shoulder reset have pushed his recovery back a good three weeks probably, and while his pain tolerance has always been far higher than any normal human's, Sam is running on nothing but fumes now. He thinks he rather deserves a few days spent in a drug-induced haze, after the Hell he's been put through thanks to its most recent Knightly champion.
However, this means taking a chance on running into his brother; but he will have to eventually, and he is grateful to at least have one now in all senses of the word, even if he's still trying to sort out everything else that goes along with their screwed-up lives and is currently jacking up his thought processes and reflexes.
He painfully gets himself upright and moves to the door. Turns back the deadbolt and doorknob lock with his good hand, leans against it for a second in weariness, head throbbing, and then opens it, letting in the cooler, slightly fresher air of the corridor.
Dean is leaning patiently against the wall a couple feet from his door, strangely vulnerable in just a dark t-shirt and sweats – as far from the outfit of last night as he can get, for which Sam's grateful, as his brother just scared the crap out of him.
"Jesus, Dean," he murmurs, hand tugging at the V-neck of his sleep shirt. "Don't do that, all right?"
His brother immediately takes a half-scrambling step backward, eyes sad. "Sure, Sam," he says, too quickly.
Sam scrubs a hand over his unshaven face; it's too early for this, and while he knows Dean's as lost as he is, he can't deal with his brother's guilt on top of his own. It's too fresh right now, too raw – and while he's never been happier to see Dean being Dean, he just can't deal with it right now, and it's not fair to ask him to.
"You okay?" he ventures, a clear olive branch.
Dean's shoulders drop a fraction, obviously relaxing. "Not the one who should be asking, but yeah."
"'K." Sam turns, as the bathroom is the opposite direction, and though his skin crawls instinctively he refuses to give in to the urge to keep his front facing a threat; because he has to get used to the idea that this Dean, he can safely turn his back on.
"Uh…" Dean shuffles a step toward him.
God, why would he not just…go do something, anything. He stops, rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, but doesn't turn around.
"Sammy?"
He bites down, hard, on the words that bubble upward, an order for Dean to not call him that – to never again call him that – because he knows that would do far more damage than even the events of last night did to their relationship. As much as it makes his skin crawl, his heart race with remembered terror, he's not that cruel.
"What, Dean."
"I went out earlier, couldn't sleep…anyway, got you coffee. If you want it."
Sam almost snorts at the pathetic bribe, but has the grace to refrain. He does, however, turn around, to see Dean step hesitantly forward with a familiar green and white cup, which must have been resting on the floor beside him.
He stares at it as Dean hands it to him and then retreats just as quickly.
"Didn't touch it, I promise. Anyway. I'll just…yeah. Leave you alone."
Sam blinks out of his daze at that, but Dean's already around the corner, and he's alone with his…coffee.
He glances down at the cup, reading the label on the side with well-practiced ease. Peppermint mocha – the holiday drink Dean always teases him about on the rare occasion he can find a store that makes it outside of December. The first time he tried it was sometime around the first Christmas after their father died, and it had been after a spectacular blowup over celebrating the holiday. Since then, it had become Dean's go-to I screwed up, Sam apology drink, saved for very special – or rather the opposite – occasions.
However, Sam knows that the nearest Starbucks is almost three hours away, in Topeka (even at Dean's driving speed, at least two).
He smiles, for what feels like (may be) the first time in weeks. They're certainly not okay, by any stretch. But with time, he knows they will be.
10.
"You enjoyed that way too much," Sam observes mildly, as they make their way through the fire-lit corridors.
"Been a while, Sammy. Been a long while. You never got old enough to start feelin' arthritis in your freakin' kneesto know the difference." Dean grins ferociously, and lops the head off a demon he bumps into as they round the corner. "Hmm, whad'ya think?"
Sam eyes the corpse as they step over it and keep moving. "Ehh. Four points, max. Didn't even have a chance to see us, much less put up a fight."
"'Suppose we've set off any proximity alarms?"
"Why the hell would we? Who in their right minds would be breaking in here? And who even has tried to gate crash the place in the last like, thirty years? These kids are way smarter today than we used to be. There's a spell for that now."
"Mm, true. Hang a left here, I think. Three o'clock!"
They whirl around in perfect synchronicity, taking out four demons which converge on them from cross-tunnels.
"Haha! Ten points, at least!"
"You are disturbed, Dean."
"You bet your ass I am," is the gleeful response, as they near the colder light shining up ahead. A dull murmur of voices tells them that they've come to the right place, and the temperature is slowly dropping back to a normal (meaning more just blistering, less brimstone) region as they draw near. One of the massive, intricately carved doors is closed, while the other stands just ajar.
Dean kicks it open and strolls in, hands in his pockets. "Honey, I'm home," he drawls, grinning wickedly.
The three fifth-level demons nearest the door suddenly find it expedient to flee in different directions. Sam hides a snort of laughter, as he's pretty sure at least two of them lost control of their bladders before they'd cleared the threshold. The current supplicant near the throne decides his issues are suddenly not important at all, not at all, and he can certainly wait until a better time, Your Majesty, perhaps in a few centuries or so, and he'll just be leaving now, adios.
Dean glances around the nearly-empty room, eyebrows raised. "Was it something I said?"
"Dear God, what did I do to deserve this?" The King of Hell doesn't even bother to sit up from his bored slouch, glaring at them with a hand pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You made us blow up the Bunker to destroy the First Demons and that Alpha Shifter that almost created a permanent open door to Purgatory in our basement," Sam said dryly.
"Ohhh, that." The King of Hell winces. "Can't blame a chap for trying, boys."
"Yeah, no hard feelings, because we basically wiped out your entire special ops forces while we were at it, and obliterated every artifact in existence that could ever create something like that ever again since it was under lock and key in the Letters archives," Dean added, smirking. "So good luck paying back those dealers you owe, since you promised them the loot from the Bunker in return for their help."
"You also brought your Malibu dream home down on your own heads, you do realize that?" Crowley asks, eyebrows raised.
"Kind of realized that when we could float through what was left of the walls and a crapton of reapers showed up, yeah."
The demon blinks, then shakes his head. "Is that why my courier from Purgatory just sent a message asking why they just had an influx of Reapers, all whining about how the Winchesters still don't play fair?"
"Heh." Dean smirks. "We don't like to brag, but…"
"You're a bloody menace, that's what you are." The King sighs, leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "But that's beside the point, lovely. Why are you here."
"Thought we'd save you the trouble," Sam says, tossing the demon knife into the air and catching it with one hand.
"Of what, my congratulating you on your heroic demise, or surviving to beyond fifty years old? Not bloody likely."
"You said back when we rescued Bobby, that nobody gets into Heaven that's on your hit list, Crowley," Sam says, scowling.
"True, true. I do recall saying that, bless the old man's stubborn soul." The demon sits back, fingers steepled. "What's that got to do with you lot?"
Dean raises one eyebrow, scratches his head absently with the hilt of his dagger. "You sayin' we're not on your naughty list?"
Genuine horror flickers across the demon's face, eyes widening. "Good God, no – you think I want two Winchesters running amok in my Hell? You couldn't pay me enough to keep you two. Take your bloody souls upstairs where they belong, boys. You're scaring the locals."
Dean's eyes flicker to his brother, whose predatory grin has the current King of Hell shrinking back in his seat as he's advanced upon slowly.
"And if we don't?" Sam asks pleasantly.
"Well, then I'll…"
"You'll what, Crowley?"
The King pauses, realizing there is literally no one left on the Earth that these two care enough about (save possibly a few odds-and-ends such as that retired sheriff in Sioux Falls, still a hot little number despite her age) that he could even threaten as motivation for them to cease and desist. Their pseudo-family and friends have all gone on before these two, and it is not as if he can kill them – and as for torture?
The entire regime knows that Dean Winchester studied under the first-level demon who wrote the book on torture. He'd be laughed out of his own throne room.
"I'd be willing to negotiate?" he tries, with an ingratiating gesture of outstretched hands.
Dean Winchester smiles, and casually buries his dagger in the armrest of the throne. "That's more like it."
"Commander."
Castiel resists the very human urge to sigh, one which he found some satisfaction in while utilizing his human, corporeal form. In this state, however, Heaven's conjured memory of Jimmy Novak's vessel, it is not necessary, to so display a human emotion such as annoyance - yet he wonders, if perhaps it might make his job just a bit more palatable were he more human than angel. He is a soldier, not a politician; and yet, since Hannah's abdication of the heavenly hierarchy nearly three decades ago, he had agreed to take over simply because he knew it was best to be in a position of power should anything happen on Earth which needed divine intervention.
And of course, as is common for humanity, such situations did arise. Multiple times, in fact; and it was fortunate for humanity that he was in the position to send them aid – the most important of which, being the final releasing of the Souls from the Veil, and the re-opening of Heaven's gates after several years of their being sealed shut due to Metatron's influence.
It had been a celebrated victory, and one which solidly cemented his place in the heavenly host as their re-instated leader, despite his having Dean and Sam Winchester to thank for the majority of that feat being accomplished.
He firmly ignores the twinges of pain, uncertainty and grief and loss, which curl around the manifestation of a human heart and its emotions in this, his heavenly vessel's form.
"Commander?"
Ah, yes. Isadriel, standing in the doorway, looking…angels do not feel fear or trepidation, so what then?
"Yes, what is it?"
"Commander…you have a visitor," the young lieutenant says, fidgeting nervously with a clipboard.
His eyebrows draw together, for no one visits this place of business, or at least no one has for at least a century, not since Naomi's predecessor struck a bargain with the overseer of Purgatory to ensure that there would be no 'portal' which might lead to Heaven, as there was from Purgatory into Hell as well as one back to the human world.
"A visitor, Isadriel? Of what sort?"
"Sir, it is – well, it is highly irregular, but not against any of the rules of diplomacy, and – well…"
"Isadriel, need I replace you with a more eloquent spokesman?"
"Commander, the –" Isadriel consults the clipboard briefly, "- the Supreme Dictator of Hell has sent an emissary to seek audience with the current ruler of Heaven, to discuss terms of a truce between our two warring factions."
Castiel processes this for a moment in silence. "The what of Hell?" he then inquires dryly. "Has our friend Crowley given himself a promotion?"
"No, he's just lost the throne to my idiot brother, Cas."
A familiar voice rings out from about a foot and a half over Isadriel's tousled head, and Castiel's heart clenches suddenly at the sight of a familiar face, sheepishly smiling at him as the man towers over the somewhat terrified, much shorter seraph in the doorway.
"Sam," he breathes, darting around the desk.
"Hey," Sam laughs, as he moves forward to meet the angel in a warm embrace.
"When I heard – Sam, what happened?"
The human's eyes sadden, downcast for a moment in what looks like regret. "I'm sorry, Cas. There was literally no time to tell you, no time to even get a prayer out – it happened too fast, and we didn't even know what we were going to have to do until right before we did it. It's a long story."
"Not that," Castiel waves impatiently. "Isadriel, you may go." The eager young angel bobs his head and shuts the door behind him, whereupon Castiel turns back to Sam, who raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Where in the name of all that is holy have you been?" he then exclaims, with possibly more anger than the words truly warrant – but he has spent almost a week sick with worry, and it is most likely entirely their fault.
"What?"
"Sam, I am the ruler of Heaven – I am notified of every soul which is supposed to enter these gates and precisely what time they are to arrive!"
Sam's face pales. "Oh."
"Yes, oh!"
"So you…"
"I have known for nearly seven of your earth days that you and your brother were killed on Earth, and yet somewhere along the way your souls did not make it to Heaven's gates – yes, Sam!"
The man looks very like a guilty child, not an "emissary of the Supreme Dictator of Hell" at the moment, and rubs a hand over his face. "Cas, I'm so sorry – we didn't think."
"Obviously," he replies dryly, still more than a little displeased.
"We…we didn't think that Crowley and his goons would even let us get here, so we thought we'd beat them to the punch and we went to Hell ourselves," Sam explains.
Castiel cocks his head, disbelieving. "You did what?"
"Umm…long story short, we walked in and took over?" Sam shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. "Crowley made himself scarce rather than become Dean's lackey, I think he's somewhere in the Sahara now sulking…anyway, Dean took over the throne, got very little opposition from Crowley's followers after he made an example of a couple of them. Dean insisted upon that stupid title, by the way, so not my idea. He's still down there taking out a few small factions who don't like the coup we staged, but he wanted to make sure we got in touch with Heaven to let them know what was going on down below before rumors started flying."
Castiel sits heavily back in his desk chair, feeling slightly faint. "I do not…this was not in the Father's plan," he murmurs after dropping his head into his hands for the moment.
Sam chuckles, and moves across the room. "I see you still have some human in you, Cas, or can you just appreciate sensory input better in this form? What do the other angels think of you having a coffee machine in your office?"
Castiel peeks out one side of his hands, glares at the younger Winchester. "The distraction, and stimulation, is quite necessary when dealing with such events as the one you have just brought to my gates, Sam."
"Ouch." Sam grins without a shred of regret, and brings back a steaming cup, setting it on the table beside him. "Still like it with no cream, lots of sugar?"
"Yes," he mutters, and reaches for the cup with a slightly unsteady hand. The drink is boiling hot, strong as can be made – and it centers his mind for the present. "A Winchester running Hell," he repeats absently, shaking his head.
"Should make things a lot easier for you guys up here," Sam ventures, over the top of his own steaming mug.
Castiel nods reluctantly. "You are quite certain, Sam, that Dean is…"
"Still Dean? Yes, Cas. 100% human, just a damn scary one right now. He says once he's done mopping up down there he'll pop in on you and really discuss how you guys want to run things for the next few millennia. With a truce between the forces of Heaven and Hell, things should quiet down on Earth, shouldn't they? It'll be a cakewalk."
Castiel shakes his head in disbelief. "I suppose I should merely count myself fortunate neither of you have the inclination to overthrow my position here," he sighs.
Sam only smiles, and winks at him over the top of his coffee cup.
Castiel swallows, and makes a note to increase security around the building.
Just in case.