Authors: kalyw and geminigrl11. Co-writing - WOOT!
Spoilers: Everybody Loves a Clown, Hunted
Notes: So, we first started this IN OCTOBER. 2006, people! But, nothing like nearly nine months, give or take, (and a few viewings of ELaC) to get it right. Right?
So, without any (further) ado...our take on what happened after the final scene in ELaC. The angst was just too good to resist.
Disclaimer: Not ours. The pretty, snarky, angsty brothers belong to Kripke & the CW.
--oo--
He dropped the tire iron stared after Sam, not seeing him, not seeing anything until he looked down at the dents - the holes - in the Impala's trunk. His back ached and his head pounded and he could feel the rage crawling like ants through his veins.
He picked up the tire iron up again without even thinking about it and threw it as hard as he could, feeling the tiniest flicker of satisfaction when he heard something shatter a few dozen yards away.
The crunch of tires over gravel made him turn and he watched Bobby's tow truck weave around a pile of junkers. He backed over the glass from the window he'd broken, leaned against a rusted-out shell as Bobby and one of his Rottweilers escaped from the cab.
"Cheney! Guard!" The dog padded to the front of the truck and lay down, body alert, eyes watchful.
Bobby didn't say anything as he walked around the car and stood next to Dean. He regarded the damage to what had been a brand new part without comment and Dean felt himself tense.
A long moment passed and then, "Found a radiator for you."
Dean cleared his throat. "Thanks."
Neither man moved.
It was hot out for fall - not the lingering warmth of Indian summer, but cloying and sticky and unwelcome. Dean rubbed a hand across his sweaty forehead, wiped it on his jeans.
Bobby pushed his ball cap back and scratched at his hairline. "Figure you'll need some help getting it in."
It wasn't really a question, but Dean nodded anyway. As he followed Bobby to the truck, Cheney greeted him with a low bark, and Bobby shushed her. The radiator looked new, the chrome shiny and rust-free. It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to ask Bobby where he'd gotten it, what he owed him for it, but he kept it in.
They could never pay Bobby back for all he'd done. There were other ways of returning favors, though. The way Dean figured it, they pretty much owed Bobby a lifetime's worth of keeping him out off harm's way.
It was one debt he intended to pay in full.
They didn't talk much as they worked, not needing many words to convey what they needed to do. Bobby had always been a man with few of them anyway, and Dean didn't have any to spare.
Bobby had more experience, but Dean knew the Impala like he knew his own skin. Together, they had the radiator mounted and tested right as the sun began to set. There was no joy in it, though, no sense of accomplishment. It was going through the motions, and all Dean could taste was bitterness. He couldn't remember ever feeling so tired.
Bobby gave him a hand up when they were through, and then handed him a water bottle. Dean took a few swallows, and then used it to douse a bandana he pressed to the back of his neck.
They leaned against the tow truck this time, Dean absently rubbing Cheney's ears and looking anywhere but at the car in front of him. Bobby looked at the ground, hat back in his hand.
"How's your brother holding up?"
Dean clenched his jaw, balled a fist into the pocket of his jeans. The rage that had started to dissipate was back, full-force. He couldn't answer, could only shake his head.
Bobby let the silence lapse for a moment, shifting a few times before he spoke again.
"You know, I was gonna junk her."
Dean gave him a sharp look, the scowl that had been set on his face for hours growing deeper.
"But Sam, he wouldn't let me. Said if even one part was workin', we had to try. Didn't want to give up."
And in that moment, Sam was all Dean could see. Ragged and hurting and struggling for control and trying to bridge distances that had become unfathomable.
He felt his throat tighten and he looked away, pulled his hand back from Cheney. The dog made a soft whuff of protest and snuffled its nose against his thigh.
He pushed Sam's image away, pushed Bobby away, too, even if it was only verbally. "You should probably head back. It's getting late."
Bobby pulled the cap back over his head and laid a hand on Dean's shoulder, more restraint than comfort when Dean flinched at the contact. When he spoke, his tone was deliberate, heavy. "Dean, your daddy always had his reasons. For everything he did." He paused. "Doesn't mean he was always right."
Dean wrenched his arm free, glaring. Bobby just watched him, not backing down.
Dean ran a hand through his hair, wanting to pace, wanting to throw something else, wanting to scream until there wasn't breath left in his lungs. But he was still instead, body taut as a bowstring, tone deadly. "You think I don't know that?"
His barely contained fury set Cheney whining but didn't seem to faze Bobby a bit. "Seems to me, you know a lot of things."
Something almost broke in him then, under the weight of the assessing look Bobby gave him. His hands shook and he made himself take a step back.
Bobby just kept watching him with a knowing expression that set his teeth on edge. "Hard part's gonna be deciding what to do with it."
Words and more words, a torrent of them, tangled in his throat. What do you know and For how long and How the hell am I supposed to decide anything and why Why WHY?
All threatening to choke him. None given voice.
Bobby's expression changed, looked weary and sympathetic, and Dean tensed again. The last thing he wanted was more damned sympathy. It looked for a minute like Bobby was going to reach out, touch him again, and he took another step back.
Bobby didn't follow though, just rubbed his chin instead and nodded, slowly, like he'd realized something that didn't make him happy but he couldn't change. He opened the passenger door and whistled Cheney in. She hung her head out the window, panting as he crossed to his side and joined her.
The diesel engine roared to life, and Bobby leaned out the window, raising his voice a little so it carried. "I don't have any answers, Dean. Just . . . you take care of yourself." He patted a hand against the door frame, gave Dean a pointed look. "Take care of your brother, too."
The words echoed like his father's, ringing hollow in Dean's ears.
The truck rolled out of sight and his own voice finally tore loose, a harsh whisper. "I always have."
--oo--
Sam hung back, watching Dean's explosive reaction and the damage he'd inflicted on the Impala. Instinct was screaming for him to reach out to his brother. But he'd been the one to make the situation worse in the first place, saying too much. Again. So he didn't move.
He felt like a coward, lurking - hiding - in the junkyard, but he didn't know what else to do. It seemed like every time he tried to help, he messed things up more.
The shattered look on Dean's face was enough to make him start to move closer, thinking maybe he could do it differently this time, be better somehow, make things better. But then Bobby pulled up and he heard something about a radiator, and he realized again that he was probably the last thing Dean needed right now. Maybe Bobby could help - quiet, no-nonsense Bobby, who could so often put things in perspective with a word or a look. Calm in the face of the storm.
Maybe Bobby was the answer, at least for now. Until Sam had figured out some way to fix what was broken between them.
Sam thought back over the unbearably long days since their dad had died. He and Dean had been at odds since leaving the hospital. There'd been no real conversation between them beyond the horror of planning how and where to burn the body. Dean had hardly spoken, retreating to the Impala every day at first light and working long into the evening.
Sam knew his brother, knew that Dean's way of dealing with things was to turn inward. But this was different, a loss almost too huge to contemplate, but one they shared – or should have, at least. It hurt, seeing Dean suffer alone, dealing with that suffering himself, and Sam couldn't help trying to reach out. Couldn't stop pushing in the way he knew rarely worked with Dean, but he didn't know what else to do.
Every day that went by, Sam felt the rift grow between them. He felt like if he didn't keep trying, he would lose his brother the way he'd lost everyone else he loved.
Based on what he'd heard, what he'd seen today, he was starting to fear he already had.
Sam watched as Dean turned back toward the crippled shell of their car - their home. The home Dean had been so patiently rebuilding and now had damaged almost beyond recognition. Dean's shoulders were bowed like some great weight settled there, even as he went through the motions of propping the hood open, moving to help Bobby get the radiator out of his truck.
Sam had made this whole process harder on Dean, there was no doubt. His grief - grief he'd wanted to share, not dump in Dean's lap to magically erase - had become the straw that broke the camel's back. Dean had been honest, all along. It was Sam that wanted to talk, that wanted to deal with things out in the open. Not Dean. .
And Sam wasn't going to force it on him anymore. He had nothing else to offer his brother…except leaving him alone. That, he could do.
Quietly, knowing it was doubtful Dean would hear him but not wanting to take the chance, Sam moved across the junkyard in the opposite direction from the Impala.
Maybe the best way for him to try and fix things was to make himself scarce for a while, give Dean the space he seemed to crave.
It wasn't easy, and each step away made Sam wonder if this time something was breaking this time that they wouldn't be able to repair. But he pressed forward.
There was nothing else he could do.
--oo--
Dean listened as Bobby drove away, ghosting a hand across the new dents and tears he'd torn in the trunk, cringing at the realization his strength - his weakness - had caused this latest damage.
He'd half-expected to see Sam at some point during the afternoon, but his brother wasn't anywhere to be seen. In truth, he was glad Sam wasn't here. About the last thing he thought he could face was that damned haunted, broken look in Sam's eyes. The look he hadn't had since the night Jess died. He had never wanted to see that look again. And it brought out feelings he couldn't even name, thinking maybe he had helped to put it there.
You spent your entire life slugging it out with that man. I mean hell, you picked a fight with him the last time you ever saw him. And now that he's dead, now you want to make it right? Well, I'm sorry, Sam, but you can't. It's too little, too late.
Oh, to take those words back. The expression on Sam's face - flat, hollow-eyed anguish where Dean had expected defiance and denial…it still ate at him. It was a look Sam had sported only one other time in Dean's memory - the night he'd told them he was going to Stanford. And Dad had told him that if he left he should never come back. So much hurt in it. And betrayal. And something that said some little corner of Sam's heart or mind or both had closed off completely.
Why are you saying this to me?
Dean hadn't been able to tell him. He'd meant the words when he'd said them, just not the way they'd sounded. He'd been trying to say that Sam had to come to terms with the fact that he couldn't go back, couldn't change anything, that he shouldn't dwell on the past.
And yeah, there was more than a little irony there, given that the whole fractured Winchester existence had been built around dwelling on the past.
So maybe he hadn't meant to hurt his brother, but there was no denying he had been angry with Sam in the moment. He'd felt like his back was against the wall, being pushed to talk about things he would probably never be ready to talk about. He'd lashed out. And Sam had shut down.
Dean had thought it was over then, and that had been bad enough. But then Sam had been right back at him - agreeing with him, for God's sake - and saying he thought Dad had died thinking Sam had hated him. And Dean just couldn't take it. Couldn't take the pain that all but radiated from Sam's body, but even more, couldn't take the memory of Dad's final words. Thinking Sam hated him had been the last thing on Dad's mind.
Those words still echoed in his ears. Sometimes, they were the only sound he could hear. And every time, they sent a chill down his spine.
Don't be scared, Dean.
Yeah, right. Because the words if you can't save him, you'll have to kill him had been so reassuring.
It had been like a gift - this great, unexpected gift - to hear his father say he was proud of him. To hear that his father had relied on him, that he had been the glue that held his family together. Magic words. Important words. And yet, how much more important to give him a damned explanation or a reason for WHY he might have to kill his brother? Why he couldn't even tell Sam about it? Of all the secrets they'd carried through the years, this was the worst of all. And Dad had made him promise. Dean just couldn't understand it.
No wonder he could barely look at Sam anymore. Every time he saw him, he heard those words and they turned his stomach. Kill Sam. The brother he'd pulled from the fire - twice. The brother his dad had given him to take care of, the one he'd been raised to protect. Kill the only person he had to rely on, the only one who knew him. His family.
He stayed by the car for a long time, not moving, still reeling from the Bobby's final words. Not knowing what to make of them.
Twilight was waning and the night creatures were making themselves known when he realized that nearly the whole day had passed. And despite everything - or maybe because of it - Sam was suddenly the only thing he wanted to see.
Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was the way having his brother out of contact for more than an hour or two sent the nameless fears that were always roiling just beneath the surface struggling toward the light. Either way, Dean realized suddenly, he needed Sam with him. Now.
--oo--
Sam hadn't paid much heed to where he was headed. He'd wandered around the lot enough over the past few days to know his way, so he didn't have to think as he meandered through the cars and trucks, all in various states of disrepair. He reached the edge of the lot before he realized it. Stumbling to a stop, Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out through the trees that surrounded the property.
He'd gone far enough that he couldn't hear any noises other than the birds and insects in the woods. The rumbling of Bobby's truck and the clanking of tools against the Impala had long faded behind him. The shattering sounds of Dean destroying the car that he loved more than almost anything else were gone.
The echoes lived on in his memory though, replaying on an endless loop. Sam shuddered at the mere memory of the sound.
But standing on the edge of the woods, surrounded by the silence, he could almost make believe it was peaceful. Sam grimaced at the thought that while he craved peace - had always craved peace - suddenly he didn't feel like he deserved it.
Seeing the way Dean was slowly cracking, piece by piece, even as he fought to hold on, made Sam ache inside. Knowing that he was contributing made it so much worse - worse even than the guilt of knowing Dad had died not knowing how he really felt. Worse than the crushing loss of knowing Dad was gone forever, that one of the worst of his childhood nightmares had come true.
The woods called to him like a siren song. The lure of the quiet, of something simple and uncomplicated, was great. It was the polar opposite of everything their lives had become. Part of Sam wanted to keep walking and not look back, to walk away from the grief and the guilt and absolve Dean of any responsibility he still felt toward him.
Above all, he wanted to release Dean of the weight he carried. Intentional or not, it was clear he had become a burden for his brother in a way he had never been in the past and certainly didn't want to be now. Didn't want it for either of them.
But he wouldn't do it, either way. He couldn't leave. Even disappearing into the woods, if only for a while, even if Dean never realized he'd done it, felt like step too far. It would feel like he was abandoning him.
Again, a small voice added.
There were no answers to be found in the stillness, anyway. No solutions. Ever since Dad had died, Sam couldn't help feeling that he and Dean were racing headlong down a path with no light at the end. Or even any light along the way. How much more could they take before everything fell apart in a way that couldn't ever be put back together?
He could still picture Dean, hooked to the ventilator, body arching as the defibrillation paddles shocked him. Dean didn't remember the coma or the doctor's grim prognosis or dying and being brought back. Twice now, Sam had faced the all-too-immediate likelihood of his brother dying. The image still gave him nightmares.
They'd talked about parts of it - the reaper, the way they'd been able to communicate through the spirit board. But Sam couldn't put into words how he'd felt being told Dean was going to die, watching it happen. Finding Dad on the floor, already gone. Too much pain and not enough words, and there was nothing to be gained from it but hurting Dean even more.
Sam could barely even stand to think about it, but he couldn't manage to forget, either. Losing Dean was something he couldn't bear, and he'd had enough experience with it to know.
Taking a deep breath, Sam rolled his shoulders, trying to let some of the tension. His head still ached, the way it had since his beating in the alley. He looked skyward for a long moment, taking a deep breath and holding it before letting it go. Maybe a little sojourn into the woods would be okay after all. Just for a little while.
He crossed into the thick grass, forging a path toward a copse of trees. He sat beneath it, shivering slightly when a brisk breeze picked up, all the more incongruous after the heat of the day. The temperature was already starting to drop as the afternoon dwindled, and Sam wished he'd thought to bring a sweatshirt. Curling up, he pressed his back against the tree and let his head fall back until it was resting against the rough bark.
Maybe if he sat still enough, long enough, the answers would come to him. Maybe he would figure out the right words to say - or not to say - that would bridge the widening chasm between him and Dean.
He sighed heavily, grateful for the shade and the quiet, and tried to make a plan.
--oo--
Dean was growing frantic. He'd been all over the lot, the garage, the wood shed, Bobby's house. But Sam was nowhere to be found.
He'd tried the cell, only to hear its tinny ring coming from Bobby's study, Sam's phone sitting next to…Dad's. The same one Sam had found, the one that had led to the Roadhouse and Ellen and another hunt. He scooped both up, thrust one in each pocket, and headed back out into the lot.
He tried Bobby next, but Bobby hadn't seen Sam, either. He offered to come back from Mitchell to help look, but Dean brushed him off. Mitchell was more than an hour away, and if Sam was still missing by then…
He wasn't going to think about it.
It was dark now, but for a pale sliver of moon, and the temperature had dropped significantly, making it feel like the autumn night it was. Dean shivered in his t-shirt and tried to remember what Sam had been wearing. Wondered if Sam was cold. What if he'd fallen, had a vision, been attacked?
The worry grew with every passing minute.
"Sam!"
He tried to ignore the way his fingers tingled, the way his heart was pounding in his chest.
There was no answer.
"Sam!"
Still nothing.
"Son of a bitch." The fears grew stronger. What if Sam had been taken? What if the Demon had come back and that was just it? What if now was the do-or-die moment Dad had warned him about?
He wasn't ready for that. He would never be ready.
"SAM!"
"Dean! What is it? Is something wrong?"
Dean spun around, almost colliding with his brother as Sam seemed to appear from nowhere. Sam reached a hand out, but Dean beat him to it, fisting a hand in Sam's shirt. "Where the hell have you been?"
He barely realized he was pushing him until he felt Sam collide with something, and give a small ooph of surprise.
"Where, Sam? Where were you?"
Twin spots of color decorated Sam's cheeks, just barely visible in the haze of Bobby's halogen lights. He looked startled, edging toward angry, but his voice stayed even. He didn't push Dean back. "I was in the woods."
"The woods? What the hell were you doing out there?"
"I was…sitting. Thinking." Sam looked away, and Dean couldn't read the expression on his face anymore. It wouldn't have mattered anyway.
"Sitting and thinking. Real nice, Sam. While I bust my ass looking all over the damn place for you."
"You could have just called me."
"You didn't have your phone!" He was shouting now, so furious he could hardly think. "You go wandering off, you keep your damn phone with you!"
"I'm sorry!" Sam was looking at him now, all right, managing to sound both pissed-off and apologetic at the same time. "I'm sorry." It was a lot softer the second time, and Sam seemed to deflate in front of him. He stared at him hard for a moment, and then forced his fingers to open and let Sam go.
--oo--
It was only seconds before Dean let go, but it felt like forever. Sam stared at him, unblinking, thinking that this was exactly what he'd been hoping to avoid. He'd have had to be blind to miss the fear so evident in Dean's eyes, despite the anger in his hands and voice.
It hit him like a blow.
Sam stumbled away, gasping a little for breath. He waited, but Dean didn't say anything else, just watched him, jaw clenched. He turned away, feeling Dean's eyes on him as he headed back toward the house.
He was shaking, and there was a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. The last thing he had wanted to do was make Dean worry, and the thought made him a little sick. Or maybe it was just the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. It felt like he had been waiting on that damned shoe for months; he almost wished it would just land on his head already and get it over with.
By the time he was indoors the shaking had subsided. The uneasy feeling, however, had not. Reaching the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer, resting the cool bottle against his forehead. He slumped against the counter, taking a drink from the bottle before sighing and closing his eyes briefly.
He was still trying to figure out what to do next when Dean walked into the kitchen several minutes later. For a long moment, they just stared at one another, neither moving.
Finally, unable to take the silence any longer, Sam gestured toward the refrigerator with the bottle he held. "Want one?"
Dean shrugged, rubbing a dirty hand over his hair before dropping into a chair. Sam pulled out two more beers and sat at the table across from his brother. He watched as Dean stared at the tabletop, worrying a dent in the wood, then slid one of the bottles across the surface. Dean grabbed it and popped the top off. In between swallows, he switched to staring at the bottle, still not making eye contact.
Sam cleared his throat. "So how's the..."
"Fine," Dean interrupted, not looking up.
"Dean," Sam said, though the sound was more sigh than word. He didn't miss the way Dean cringed, even though he hadn't figured out what else he was going to say.
Looking down at his own hands, fiddling the beer bottle between them, Sam fought the urge to mirror Dean's sigh. "Okay," he whispered.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean turn toward him. He glanced across the table to find Dean looking at him suspiciously. "That's it? Okay?"
"Dean, I..." Looking skyward, Sam wished he had the first clue what to say to navigate the minefield that had become their relationship. He settled for a shrug. He lowered his voice, so much he wasn't sure Dean could hear. "The last time I tried you took it out on the car."
The sound of glass slamming against wood startled Sam out of his thoughts, bringing his gaze quickly to Dean. "Sammy, what do you want?"
Saddened by the fact that apparently any kind of discussion was beyond them anymore, Sam stood. Leaving his beer on the table, he shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. "Nothing, Dean."
He shook his head, feeling his shoulders slump. Not looking back, he left the kitchen. Like earlier, he didn't know where he was going. This time, though, Dean would at least be able to find him without panicking.
What was left unsaid was the real answer to Dean's question.
He just wanted his brother. None of it was worth a damn otherwise.
--oo--
Dean sat at the table, letting his beer grow warm. Distantly, he heard the sound of Sam taking a shower and then trudging up the stairs. If his footsteps were any indication, he was exhausted. They both were, sleep being a rare commodity since they'd left the hospital. And tonight, Dean had finally let himself notice the fact that, while he'd been healed - for reasons he still wasn't sure of - Sam still bore the bruises from his run-in with the Demon's son. From their run-in with the semi.
New guilt washed over him. Sam hadn't said anything about his own injuries, had acted like the swelling around his eye and the cuts on his cheek and forehead were nonexistent. So, Dean had, too. Better than reliving the memories.
But that meant he hadn't taken care of Sam, either. (Take care of your brother.) Not in the way he was supposed to, and that was unacceptable.
Resigned, Dean set the bottle down and pushed his chair back. The stairs seemed as steep as a mountain, and he felt fatigue settle over him like a heavy coat. By the time he reached the top, things were blurry, and he thought maybe, just maybe, he'd sleep tonight, too.
Sam was curled on the bed, arms wrapped around his chest, the blankets still flung over the footboard. It was a far cry from his usual sprawl, and it made him look young and vulnerable.
And cold. He shivered and Dean took a step forward, hauling the blankets up and over Sam's shoulders.
It took him by surprise when Sam's eyes open and he mumbled, "Dean?"
"Go back to sleep, Sam."
But Sam didn't, of course, just pushed himself up on one elbow, frowning a little. "Are you okay?"
Those damned words again. But this time it was different. Easier. Maybe it was the darkness and the way it let him hide, at least a little. Maybe it was the little-boy-lost expression on Sam's face that raised every single one of Dean's protective older brother tendencies. Maybe he just needed a moment - just one moment - to feel like he could breathe.
"No."
Sam just looked at him, not judging, not asking anything, just waiting.
"But I'm trying." It wasn't much. But it was all he had to give. And maybe, for now, it was enough.
Fin