Looking For Peace of Mind

A coda to "Mystery Spot"

This story first appeared in the zine Hunting Trips 3

The door closed behind Dean, and Sam swallowed the fear that lodged a lump in his throat. He sighed, running a shaking hand through his hair. At least he was past the full-blown anxiety attacks that had kept him glued to his brother's side twenty-four/seven lately. He could tell Dean's tolerance was wearing thin.

Not that Dean hadn't been the über-patient big brother the last week. He'd gone out of his way to stay within eyeshot, especially when Sam woke up. But Dean was getting increasingly antsy, pacing, biting his nails. Sam wanted desperately for things to be back to normal, but to achieve that, he had to let go.

So when Dean announced he was going out to get breakfast, Sam bit back a retort, masked his fear, and nodded mutely.

Dean had waited, watching him. Making sure he was okay with it, Sam realized. I'll go with you, his mind had screamed, but he'd said just "pancakes" instead, and felt a pang as he remembered the diner. The Trickster eating breakfast. The— Damn it! When would it stop? Pushing past the panic, he added, "Lots of syrup."

Sam caught the look of relief before Dean buried it in a smile. "You got it," he'd said.

Then he was gone.

Sam stared at the door, listening. It took a moment for him to realize he was holding his breath. With a frustrated snort, he cast his gaze around the room, looking for something to do. He needed something to do. God, how he hated being alone now.

He crossed to the laptop on the table below the window and opened it. His fingertips tapped the touch-pad, bringing the screen back to life. There were still plenty of news articles to read, clues to discover, demons to be found. Maybe some research would distract him for a while.

Maybe not. He gave it his best shot, but his mind kept wandering, his knee bobbing nervously. What if Dean needed help? What if he…?

Sam finally gave up and began to pace. He checked his watch. Dean had only been gone fifteen minutes.

Okay, then. A shower. A nice, hot shower, and Dean would be back by the time he was done.

Decision made, Sam started for the bathroom.

The pop from outside froze him in his tracks, made his blood run cold. "Dean," Sam said on a breath, then bolted for the door, nearly putting a hole in the wall when he slammed it open. "Dean!" he yelled.

Startled, the elderly maintenance man grabbed at the rungs of his ladder and scowled at Sam. Then he grumbled under his breath as he climbed down and surveyed the mess. A shattered bulb littered the cement walkway a few doors down.

Sam fell back against the doorjamb, trying to calm his racing heart. He stumbled back inside, closing the door behind him, swallowing convulsively. He didn't want to throw up. Memories flashed through his mind, ones he wanted to banish forever. He had to stop this. It had been three weeks. Three weeks and Dean was still there. The way things were before…

He leaned over the dresser, knuckles white where they gripped the edge. Come on, Sam, get it together. He took a deep breath and pushed upright.

Enough. Shower.

Two steps, and Sam stumbled, his foot snagged on something beside the dresser. One of the handles of Dean's duffel. He tried to kick it loose, but only succeeded in spilling half the contents onto the floor. With an aggravated sigh, he finally kicked it loose, then crouched to shove Dean's belongings back into the bag.

Sam's hand closed around his brother's journal, and a memory stirred, something from a long time ago. A long time ago in a reality that only existed for him now. He'd forgotten about it, really, but now…

Did it even really exist? Or was it simply another fabrication, created by the Trickster? Sometimes it seemed like it was all just a bad dream. A nightmare he'd finally woken from. And sometimes…

Sam stood and picked up their father's journal from where it lay beside the laptop. He carried both books to his bed and sat on the edge.

Sam set Dad's journal on the bed beside him and held Dean's in both hands. He'd read it. Every page, every entry, every word. He'd read it over and over, the last link to his brother in that time when he had never felt more alone in the world There were even passages addressed to Sam: instructions on what to do once Dean was gone, and other more personal things that he… He closed his eyes. It hurt too much now to think about it, to remember what it was like, what it would be like again when Dean's year was up. Sam opened his eyes. He would find a way to save Dean. He had to.

Sam's hand skimmed over the cover. He didn't want to read it again. He just…needed to know. Turning the journal so the back cover was facing up, Sam drew a breath, held it, and opened the book.

On the inside was a small pocket stuffed with notes, some in Dean's writing, some surely penned by female hands. Sam slipped his fingers into the pocket, behind the other papers…and felt the folded note tucked away out of sight.

His stomach clenched. It really did exist.

With two fingers, he withdrew it from the pocket, his breath stuttering out on a shaky sigh. He set Dean's journal aside and picked up Dad's. His fingers seemed to move of their own volition, unfolding the note, smoothing it out, comparing the paper, the writing. Perfect match.

Sam's eyes wandered over the words, not missing the fact his father's handwriting was so neat, so deliberate, unlike most of the journal. And then the words themselves…

Dean,

Anything happens to me, find Sam. Watch out for your brother.

Nothing's more important. It's coming for him.

When he'd first read it, he couldn't understand why it had upset him so much. Besides the fact Dean had never told him about it. Then it had hit him—

The door opened.

"Hey, they had this special, so I got you—" Dean stopped, taking in the scene. A flicker of anger crossed his face, then it was gone, carefully schooled. He closed the door and set the food on the table. "You, uh…going through my stuff, Sammy?" A little irritation came through in his voice, but more hurt. Maybe even a little guilt.

Sam looked him dead in the eye. "I did, Dean. Months ago."

Silence.

His brother's lack of response made Sam's chest ache. Dean stood near the foot of his own bed, the fingers of his right hand absently rubbing his temple as he thought it through. He knew. Most of it, anyway. That first night after they'd settled into a new motel and Sam couldn't sleep, they'd watched old movies for hours, and then Sam had just started talking. Dean had listened without saying a word until Sam ran out of steam; just to have someone to talk to again meant more than he could ever put into words. When he'd finally looked at his brother, blinking him into focus, he'd seen the paleness of Dean's face, the quick, shallow breaths. I'm sorry, man, Dean had said simply, his voice rough with emotion.

"Yeah," Dean sighed now, dragging Sam back to the present. "Okay." He stepped closer and lowered himself onto the corner of the bed closest to Sam's. He indicated the note with a casual flick of a finger. "Sam…I'm sorry. I should have told you—"

"Dean. Don't." Sam shook his head. "I'm so over that."

Dean's head bobbed in concession. "'Kay…. So…what's with the—?"

"Would you have come for me if Dad hadn't told you to?" There, he'd said it. It was out.

Dean jerked, physically taken aback. The reaction actually brought the curve of a smile to Sam's lips. It wasn't too often he caught his brother off guard like that. But as Sam waited for an answer, his smile faded. He watched Dean's face for some clue, but he could only see it in profile as Dean stared at his hands clasped between his knees.

"I don't know," Dean said finally.

So not what Sam was expecting to hear. He swallowed down the lump in his throat. Opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

Dean spared him the effort. "I missed you, Sammy." He looked up at Sam. "But I just… I was afraid you…. We used to talk your first year, you know? Then…I-I guess you made friends, got a job…were busy studying…whatever. You didn't return my calls. So I left you alone. Figured that's what you wanted."

Sam couldn't see through the sheen over his eyes. His first inclination was to deny it, but then…how could he? He'd tried so hard back then to distance himself from the hunting life that he'd cut Dean off in the process. It was difficult now to even think about it, so unbelievable that he had felt that way, and now, faced with the prospect of losing Dean again, Sam mourned the time those years at school had cost him.

"But when I read that note," Dean shook his head, an old anger coloring his words, "I knew exactly what it Dad was talking about, and there was no way, no way, I was gonna let that son of a bitch get you."

Sam felt himself smile a little at that. "Big brother to the rescue?"

Dean shrugged, the anger draining. He didn't have to say anything; his expression was enough. That's my job. "Dad just thought we were stronger together."

"He was right."

Dean looked at him, eyebrows shooting up. You're agreeing with Dad?

Sam gave him a shove. "Shut up."

Feigned innocence. "I didn't say anything."

Sam laughed, and it felt good.

"Besides," Dean continued. "Hunting alone? Sucks, man."

Sobering again, Sam nodded. "Yeah," was all he could manage. He stared down at the note again. When he'd first read it, he'd been angry. Furious that Dean had kept it from him. Dean had known from the time he'd broken into Sam's apartment that there was danger. Sam suspected now that he wouldn't have died in the fire that had stolen Jess; he would have been taken, like Ava, like Jake. Dean had saved him from that fate. Over and over again. His eyes clouded. He couldn't see the note, but he saw more clearly now. It had brought them together again. Given him his brother back, just as the Trickster had.

Sam still wasn't sure what lesson he was supposed to have learned, and that was the point, wasn't it? The Trickster had been trying to teach him something. But what, that the Bad Guys knew Dean was his greatest weakness? That might be true, but his brother was also his greatest strength. And Sam was so afraid of what he would become without him.

"So, you, uh…read it?"

Sam didn't need to look up to know what his brother was talking about. He nodded slowly.

"I mean it, Sam. Every word." Dean paused until Sam looked up at him. "If we can't…if I don't…. Go to Bobby's. Don't go off on your own. Promise me, Sammy."

Sam winced, remembering his last meeting with Bobby. He'd been so sure the Bobby he'd killed had been the Trickster…then he remembered the doubt, the crushing weight that had driven the breath from his lungs as uncertainty crept in, the sick horror of Oh, God, what did I do? twisting his belly to knots. Without Dean, he had become…he had become…

"Sam?"

Blinking away that terrifying thought, Sam offered another nod.

"I need you to say it."

He swallowed hard. "I promise."

"Good." Dean gave Sam's knee a pat. "Hey." He stood and stretched. "Breakfast is getting cold."

"We have a microwave, Dean."

His brother made a face. "Nuked pancakes taste like rubber." He crossed to the table and dug through the bag.

Sam carefully folded the note and tucked it back in its spot, setting the journal on Dean's bed on his way to the table. Dean had moved the laptop out of the way and set out the Styrofoam containers. Settling into his chair, Sam opened his. It smelled wonderful.

"Oh, and I left those numbers in there for you," Dean said around a mouthful of pancake. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Sam groaned. "Dean."

"Hey, you're the one who said you needed to be more like me. I'm not all about hunting, Sammy." Then he started singing, "I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a child, I'm a mother, I'm a sinner, I'm a saint…"

And Sam laughed, the tension of the morning melting away. It was moments like this that helped him forget, if only for a little while. When he could sit back and enjoy breakfast and Dean's company. And just a little peace of mind.

Author's Note: John's note in this story came from Kripke's original pilot script.