Faith After the Fall
Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Supernatural, or any of the characters you find here.
Spoilers: Spoilers up to 5-18. Coda-ish. Companion to my other story "Would if He Were Half the Man".
On the eleventh day, Sam slept in. No, really. Also, he got some sun.
Eleven days after the disaster in Van Nuys (or stirring display of brotherly love, depending on who you asked), Sam woke up to discover Dean had gone AWOL. Took a walk. Flew the coop. Gave up the ship. Jumped the tracks, and wasn't coming back.
His gaze shifted from Bobby's couch (where Dean was supposed to have bedded down), to the yard (with the vacant space where the Impala had last been parked), to Bobby's panicked face (his eyes first trailing downward, to wheelchair-level, and damn if that wasn't a long trip from his height). The old man looked green with worry. Sam took a moment to wonder if he had ever developed ulcers, stressing over the Winchester brother's latest shenanigans.
"You think he went back? Said yes?"
Sam shrugged, rapped the knuckles of one hand across the kitchen table.
"Nope."
Then he spun on his heel, climbed the stairs to his borrowed room, and rolled back into bed.
He woke again around noon, turned his head to stare at the wall closest to him, and tried to count the cracks and pockmarks worn into the paint and plaster over time. He zeroed in on a small dent, surrounded by scoff marks, just above the baseboard.
He'd put it there himself, almost two years ago. He'd been frustrated with Dean, with his deal, and his lackadaisical attitude towards his impending death. One swift kick had all of Sam's anger and frustration spelled out across that wall forever, or at least until Bobby or someone (Dean most likely, if he ever came back) repaired it.
He tried to rustle up some of that righteous indignation. He found none. No indignation. No aggravation. No exasperation. No anger. No Dean, either.
He rolled onto his back, stretched like a cat (both arms and legs reaching, pulled taut, like his body had been laid out on a rack and was slowly being tugged apart), and got out of bed. He headed to the kitchen, humming lightly to himself. Bobby was sitting at the table, his chair tucked up tight against the wood, with his head in his hands. So that's one more point for ulcers, right there.
Sam slid past him on cat feet (the second time that morning he'd likened himself to a cat, and what could that mean?), and drew open the fridge. He took out a gallon of OJ, brought the half full carton to his lips, and drank. Then he capped it off and returned it to its shelf, looked back in Bobby's direction in time for their eyes to meet.
"I got nothing, son. I got nothing."
Sam cocked his head, and then reached back into the fridge for the discarded gallon.
"Okay."
He shut the door to the fridge behind him, and walked out into the yard.
Bobby called out to him from the porch, called him by his full name, like he'd just discovered the key to a riddle (the same way some demons did from time to time, and didn't that just lighten his heart), like Sam was freaking Rumpelstiltskin; some strange and ornery creature who stalked after desperate maidens, and made deals for the fate of firstborn sons.
Sam ignored him and kept walking.
He found a junker large enough to fit his oversized frame, sprawled out over the hood, rested his head on the cracked windshield, and gazed up at the sky. It was a clear blue, cleaner and crisper than he could ever remember seeing, and he fought to recall the last time he'd taken a moment to look. He spent the afternoon contemplating the exact shades of color on the bright canvas above him, pausing only to remove his shirt as the sun peaked it's highest.
His stomach rumbled from time to time; he ignored it, in favor of picking out shapes in the clouds. A tire iron. A wendigo. A colt. Large puffs of cumulus formed like giant eyes peered down at him, and he wished, absurdly and fervently for Castiel, to ask him, is that the God you've been looking for?
By the time afternoon spilled into evening, Sam'd had his fill. He made his way back into Bobby's kitchen, blinking as he struggled to adjust his eyes to the indoor lighting. The man was still sitting at the table, his phone in one hand and his gun in the other.
"Not easy lovin' what ain't meant long for this world. Makes me wanna hang on with both fists."
"I know."
The two men had a small meal of sandwiches and beer, before heading out to the porch to watch the sunset. Bobby left terse messages every half hour, like clockwork, on Dean's voicemail. It was rarely full, and Sam could only guess at the meaning in that.
He talked about Stanford, about his freshman year, and being away from dad and Dean for the first time in his life. He talked about the classes he took, the friends he made. He talked about Jess, and law school, and regrets. It was like lancing a painful wound, one that had spent the past five years festering.
Bobby turned in just after dark, leaving Sam to man the phones, and you best keep to my schedule, boy, I don't give a good goddamn whether you wanna talk to your brother or not. Not fifteen minutes after being left alone, Sam caught the rushed sound of wings.
"You're alive."
"Yes."
"I'm glad. Dean will be…I'm glad."
"…"
"He didn't say yes."
"You didn't expect him to."
"He's still gone."
"Not gone, just…"
"Do you know where he is?"
"He didn't say yes, Sam. He'll return to you."
"I know that. But he needs…will you bring him home?"
"I cannot sense him- the symbols I gave you prevent that- but…"
"You can find him?"
"Not me. You know him best, Sam."
"You've been in his dreams."
"True."
"Where does he go?"
"Dean goes where he believes he can find peace."
"Oh."
Sam paused, breathed in the night's crisp air. He smiled.
"Then, I know where he is."
Just a little Sammy POV, in preparation for the finale tonight (for US viewers, anyway). Once again, feel free to review.