Burying the Dead
K Hanna Korossy
"This looks like a good place to torch the body."
He knew it was a risk to speak up. After their argument about forty miles back, the wall around Dean in the passenger seat was almost a palpable thing: hurt and anger and grief woven tight, solid and jagged-edged. Pretty much the opposite of an invitation to talk, let alone about that.
But riding next to a fortress got uncomfortable fast, and Sam finally talked himself into making the first move.
Dean's jaw rippled. The wall between them thickened. And just when Sam was sure he would be completely shut out, came the answer. "Find a motel to get out at."
For a second he thought Dean meant drop him off with the corpse to take care of the disposal, and then he realized. Dean was dropping him off so Dean could go get rid of the body by himself. Sam opened his mouth to argue.
"Don't worry," Dean added snidely, "I won't get myself killed."
Sam swayed back, glad for the distance between them now, if Dean was going to throw barbs like that. He pressed a little harder on the gas, wishing he could drive away from the pressure cooker inside the car.
He knew Dean was mad at him for having killed Emma. For all his brother's insistence he was going to do it, that he wasn't stupid, Sam was sure about the doubt he'd seen in Dean's eyes, the struggle not to care.
But it wasn't just that his head wasn't in the game like Bobby had said. Dean had actually been doing better since he talked to Frank, and then to freaking Elliot Ness. No, this had to do with Dean's utter devotion to family, even if that meant a monster who happened to carry a piece of his DNA. This was how, in Dean's eyes, he'd just watched his daughter be murdered by his brother.
Sam dragged in a breath and pulled the car onto the ramp for the "Hillside Motel." Just like the serial killer stranglers by that name. Fitting.
There was a vacancy sign out, pretty much a given considering they were in the no-man's land of east Washington, maybe even northern Idaho by now, surrounded by mountains. A good place for a body dump, actually.
He pulled up in front of the main office and sat, engine idling, both of them staring out the window. Sam took a deep breath, inhaling his brother's pain, exhaling his own pride. "I'd feel better going with you, man."
"I got it." Dean slid over in the seat, hip bumping Sam's, shoving him out the door. The contact oddly made him feel even more distant.
Sam reluctantly climbed out, bending down to ask, "You want me to take your bag in, too?"
"No." Dean already had the car in reverse, twitching to shut the door.
Sam hesitated, gaze flicking over Lucifer, who'd just settled with a smile into the passenger seat, then back to Dean. "You are coming back, right?"
That was the first thing that seemed to really get through. Dean's head shot up, his eyes meeting Sam's for maybe the first time since they'd stared at each other over Emma's body. "Of course. Of course I am, Sam."
"Okay," he said, even though it wasn't. "Okay." He rapped the hood of the Buick and stood, walking stiff-legged to the trunk to get his duffel. Dean barely waited for the bang of the trunk lid before he was peeling out of the parking lot.
Sam watched until the tail lights faded before he headed into the office.
Room 11 was at the end of the motor court, another little pocket of isolation. Sam gave the room a disinterested glance as he tossed his bag on the nearest chair, and strode into the bathroom for an overdue shower.
Eyes closed under the water, he couldn't help see the scene again.
The girl spinning to face him, eyes a hellish red, knife in her hand. Dean standing behind her, holding his gun but motionless with shock.
Her turning back to Dean. Pleading, "Please don't let him hurt me."
A pause, everything holding its breath.
Then she was facing Sam again, looking like a scared sixteen-year-old now, with maybe a hint of Mary Winchester's eyes.
And then Sam shot her in the chest, and she fell down, dead.
His niece.
He shut his eyes tighter.
Dean's look had been indecipherable. They didn't have an unspoken lexicon for You shot my monster kid. But he'd been kneeling next to her body when Sam had returned with the shower curtain from the bathroom, quickly tucking his phone away before he thought Sam could see he'd taken her picture. And the way he'd rolled her in the curtain was almost gentle. He hadn't let Sam carry her out to the car.
They hadn't discussed it, but Sam knew she'd have to be smoked. Any kind of dump or burial meant a possibility she'd be found at some point, her DNA tested, causing confusion but also maybe linking to Dean. He was old enough to have a daughter of sixteen, clearly someone he would have fathered before he officially, publicly died—either time—but still, it was a chance they didn't need to take. Which left burning.
Sam had a fair notion it was a funeral pyre Dean had planned, however, not a salt-and-burn. She was a corpse, not a carcass.
He'd compared her to Amy, but that wasn't right. Unlike Amy, Emma planned to kill again, without any misgivings. She was a true monster. But also unlike Amy, there was Winchester blood in her, a tie far deeper than debt and regret. And like it or not, that meant something to Dean. To Sam, even, more than he'd thought..
He changed into another pair of jeans and shirts instead of sleep clothes, too restless to consider turning in. They were in a one-motel rest stop, no diner down the street, not even a gas station mini-mart. He had granola bars and jerky stashed in his duffel, but what he craved was a beer, maybe even something stronger.
Lucifer started crooning "Alone Again" across the room as he sharpened a knife. Sam snapped on the TV, busying himself making coffee and texting Dean the room number and washing some bloody clothes out in the sink while an old movie played in the background. He made ice packs for the bruises the amazon cop had inflicted, and stuck butterfly bandages on two of the cuts. Then he eased his sore body down in the chair by the dark window and pretended to focus on updating their journal on amazons as he waited.
It was sooner than he thought, maybe two hours since Dean had left him, when headlights swept past the window. Startled, Sam raised his head, realizing his subconscious had been waiting for the throaty growl of the Impala. Instead...huh. It wasn't even the Buick Dean had left in that pulled up, but a generic Toyota compact. Probably not a bad idea considering they'd peeled the Buick away from the echo of a gunshot and a bloody motel room, but Sam was pretty sure that wasn't why Dean had traded out. He was more surprised that his brother had found something to trade out there.
The lights and engine turned off, and a door slammed shut, then the trunk. Sam held his breath for several beats, but there was no further sound. He finally gave in and peered through the slitted blinds.
Dean was silhouetted behind the car, by all appearances just leaning against the rear, staring up at the sky.
Sam sat back, chewing his lip. Both relief and nerves twisted in his gut over Dean's return; the last few hours had been loaded, and he wasn't sure either of them was ready to deal with it. A little space—burning the body of his freak daughter—and air—below freezing, in the Rockies in late winter—was maybe what they both needed.
Yeah, right, Sam thought darkly as he reached for his jacket and shoved his boots on. What they needed was Bobby to complain to and Lisa and Jess to lean on and the Impala to take comfort in. What they had was just the two of them. And Sam needed his brother. He knew Dean did, too, whether the jerk admitted it or not.
Dean didn't react to his arrival, eyes trained on the stars. He smelled like smoke and whiskey, and the little Sam could see of his eyes was red. He'd pretend it was from the smoke. After a few heartbeats of staring, Sam turned to lean back against the car beside his brother. They'd had many good talks like this, in the dark, not looking at each other.
Except, he didn't know how to begin, and Dean was pretending like he wasn't even there.
Anger hadn't worked so great, and besides, Sam's was gone. Sympathy turned Dean off even faster. There was, in fact, only one thing Dean could never say no to. Sam grimaced, pressing his thumb hard into his palm until it was just the two of them. Then he took a deep breath and opened a vein.
"A couple months before she died, Jess and I had a pregnancy scare."
He could feel Dean startle next to him, enough even to look over at Sam. But Sam kept his gaze safely on the clear sky.
"She told me when she was four days late. Scared the crap out of both of us, you know?" His smile was fleeting, painful. "I mean, we were just finishing junior year, both planning on grad school. We were so relieved when it turned out to be a false alarm the next day."
He took a moment to remember. Time had smoothed the sharp edges of Jess's loss, but this was a different kind of hollowness. One of the few things he'd never shared even with his brother.
"But...some part of me was sorry, too, y'know? I mean, for a little bit, I'd just let myself think...what if?"
Dean had switched back to watching the stars instead of him, but he knew he had his brother's complete attention, that Dean was just giving him room. Room Sam was suddenly surprised to find he didn't want.
He nudged his shoulder against Dean's, waiting until his brother's eyes connected with his. Unsurprised to see the shared sorrow in them. "So, I get it. A little, anyway. I know she wasn't just another Amy. And I know you've kinda had a few shots at this—I mean," Sam shook his head, "c'mon, you raised me more than Dad did, and Ben..." He quickly held up a hand at Dean's look, not wanting to have his nose broken. "But I know you don't think it's gonna happen, and that it's probably better that way given the whole Winchester legacy thing, and that makes sense, I know." He sighed, kicking at the frosted gravel at their feet, gaze venturing back to his brother's more shyly. "But that doesn't stop me wanting to be 'Daddy' someday, or 'Uncle Sam.'" At the twitch of Dean's mouth, he grimaced. "Whatever, you know what I mean."
Dean cleared his throat and nodded, finally looking away. "I know. And I know she was a monster, Sam, and she had to be put down. I mean, I'm not an idiot, anything that goes from birth to 16 in two days isn't human. But...some part of her was mine, you know?"
Sam nodded. "I'm sorry I had to shoot her."
Dean was already shaking his head. "Don't. It needed to be done, and you were right," he glanced sideways at Sam, "I was having trouble doing it."
Sam hadn't said he'd been sorry he'd shot her, but he let it lie. Dean would be hurting even worse if he'd been the one to pull the trigger. If being mad at Sam for doing it helped him feel less guilty, well, Sam had broad shoulders, he could take it. He just tilted his head at Dean. "I think that kinda makes you one of the humans, man."
Dean snorted. "Not 'wobbly' or like my head's not in the game?"
Sam cracked a sad smile. "I think it's safe to say we've both had better days."
Dean huffed an agreement with that, fumbling inside his jacket. He retrieved Bobby's flask and took a pull from it, paused, then offered it to Sam.
He didn't hesitate to take it, shuddering a little as the alcohol burned its way down.
They stayed there a minute more in silence, close enough that they shared shivers from the cold.
"Bride of Frankenstein's playing inside," Sam finally said through chattering teeth. They'd have to swing by the Impala to dig out their cold-weather gear if their next hunt was north, too, but that sounded good to him. Dean could use the grounding. Sam maybe could, too.
"Why didn't you say so?" Dean leaned down to grab the two bags by his feet, then pushed off the car and gave Sam a shove toward the door. When Sam hissed, his brother's voice fell. "The professor toss you around?"
"The cop," Sam corrected. "Turns out she was one of them." He headed straight for the coffeemaker inside, fixing a new batch with stiff fingers.
"Awesome. Dead?" Dean shut the door, gaze roaming the room out of habit.
"Yeah." He wasn't sorry for that one. "Took her out at the college."
"So we probably burned the professor as a future source." Dean paused in the process of rooting around in his duffel. "Yeah, I'm not feeling too bad about that one."
Sam gave him a bitchy look just out of habit.
"You ice your back?" Dean asked casually as he picked out clothes.
"You mean besides just now outside?" Sam quipped.
"Anything need stitches?"
They could've been discussing sports, not whether Sam needed first aid, but then, this was their casual banter. Even more so, it was an affirmation that Dean was paying attention and that he cared. Whatever crap was piled on or sometimes between them, he was still in the game for Sam.
"Sam?"
"No, I'm good."
Dean grumbled some doubt under his breath about how good Sam really was and went to take a shower.
Sam called the front office and found a local Chinese place that delivered, and ordered half their menu. He passed a mug of coffee into the bathroom, and a few minutes later Dean came out and flopped down on the bed next to him to watch the end of the movie, smelling now of soap and Sam's shampoo instead of smoke. They ate, went through a six-pack, made fun of the movie and each other.
And for a little while forgot about the dead and took comfort in the living.
The End