Out of Love
K Hanna Korossy
When he'd been hoping Sam would talk a little more, it wasn't this he had in mind.
The stream of curses sifting out of the bathroom was pretty impressive, however. Dean couldn't help wandering to the partly open door and leaning against the jamb, giving his struggling brother a lazy half-smile. "Need some help?"
"No," Sam spat in the exact same tone he'd just used to, Dean was pretty sure, malign the virtue of some hapless tailor's bloodline. "You know," he continued in exasperation, "if Dad had taught me this when I was younger, maybe I wouldn't have so much trouble with it now."
The tiny flinch at the mention of Dad was automatic, but Dean moved past it quickly. And into the bathroom to shove aside Sam's fumbling hands.
Sam fought him a halfhearted moment but finally caved, standing and stewing as Dean worked.
"Dad didn't teach you how to tie ties," Dean said calmly, fingers as steady and smooth as if he were racking a shotgun, albeit far less familiar with the task. "I did. And I had to wait until I knew how to do it, which wasn't until Jeannie Lester showed me in high school." He chuckled reminiscently. "That girl had a thing for ties. And not just when we were going out, either…"
Sam frowned down at him even while he kept his chin up, letting Dean work. "Wait…Dad didn't teach you?"
Dean shrugged one-shouldered. "Not like it was a skill you needed to keep you alive, Sam. Kinda came below knife-fighting and target practice." And…there. He stepped back to admire his handiwork. Sam didn't have to know that it was still easier for Dean to tie one of those stupid nooses on someone else than it was on himself.
"But—" Sam must've seen his face tighten, because his protest fell, fingers stumbling over the knot. "I don't remember any of that," he said quietly.
"Yeah, well, that's probably because you were freaking out about the middle school dance at the time." Dean shoved his shoulder. "And I did a good job, dude—you know how to do this. You're just freaking out again."
Sam didn't deny it, eyes sliding sideways to check himself over in the mirror. Dean followed his gaze, seeing what he did: freshly pressed suit, check. Perfectly tied tie, check. Pale face showing signs of too little sleep, check.
Dean studied his brother in the mirror, as if it were somehow easier than doing it in person. He still didn't like what he saw. "You don't have to do this," he repeated for what was about the tenth time.
Sam's reflection just shot him a look, half-aggravation, half-helpless anxiety.
"Sam, you only spent, what, twenty-four hours with this Ava girl? You don't owe her—"
"Everything," Sam said quietly. "I owe her everything, Dean. And now she's gone and all that's left is her dead fiancé, and if I can't do anything else for her, at least I can do this." He turned to Dean, no mirror between them now. "Besides, I thought we agreed I might find out something at the funeral."
"That was—" before you went into silent-running mode on me "—before you lost your cool with a tie, man. I'm not sure I trust you with all those cheek-pinching grannies there."
That anxious look was back, and Dean had an idea it had nothing to do with blue-haired old ladies.
"It'll be less than an hour, Sam," he soothed, because while it was the perfect chance to talk Sam out of going, Dean was pretty sure now that wasn't what his brother needed. "Go do it for Ava."
Sam took a deep breath, nodded. "Yeah. Okay. I'm ready."
Dean nodded back. "Let's go."
He drove, in no small part because he wasn't sure he trusted Sam behind the wheel of any car just then, let alone his baby's. Besides, even though Dean wasn't actually attending the funeral himself didn't mean he didn't want to stay close and keep an eye on Sam. Yeah, 5-0 would be all over the event, looking for suspects in the grizzly murder of Ava's fiancé, and Dean's face wasn't exactly unknown to law enforcement. But he was more than a little worried about his brother right now, and that trumped personal caution.
The fact was, while Sam taking off after the whole Croatoan thing still stung, his obvious withdrawal afterward had Dean more concerned than ticked off at this point. Ava's disappearance from her bloody bedroom had to be weighing heavily on his kid brother's mind—even Dean was grateful to her for apparently having saved Sam's life—not to mention psycho-Gordon coming after him like he was just another thing to be hunted. And then, oh, yeah, there was Dad's little secret Dean had shared with him, all that destiny crap Dean was sorely starting to wish he'd never dumped on Sam's shoulders. It was bad timing, too many things happening at once, too many catastrophes for Sam to blame himself for, and Sam did have a tendency a mile wide to blame himself for everything, including the fate of everyone he'd ever met and then some. Dean wasn't all that surprised when Sam started picking at his food and staying up into the wee hours again. Sam Winchester Despair 101; Dean had learned these patterns well after Jessica.
At the same time, Dean still had his own issues, not the least of which was that sharing Dad's secret didn't negate what his father had warned him about. Or that even thinking about the man still made Dean's throat close and his eyes well, and so he was carefully steering clear of as many reminders of their dad as possible. Yeah, he was in great shape to be there for Sam.
Friggin' demons.
Dean turned into the cemetery gates and smoothly followed the procession of cars that snaked along just inside. Perfect timing, despite Sam's wardrobe crisis. Sam knew it, too, his fingers already skittering over the crease of his dry-cleaned slacks. Dean was tempted to reach over and stop the nervous motion, then to ask him again if he really wanted to do this, then to knock him out and just take off, leave this mess, this whole state behind them. But all he did was glance over at Sam with as much nonchalance as he could muster and ask, "You wanna get out here?"
No, Sam's eyes said. "Yeah," his lips answered, and he was shoving the door open before Dean even properly braked.
Dean scowled after him, then shook his head. "I'll check it out from this end," he called after Sam.
Sam nodded absently, staring after the procession.
"Meet you back here after?" Dean called through the open passenger-side window. The breeze had ruffled Sam's hair up on the one side, but that didn't seem worth mentioning right now.
"Yeah." Sam skated his fingers over his tie.
"You look fine, dude, just go."
Sam's eyes flicked back to him, deep with fear.
Dean swallowed the panic that look automatically flared in his own gut. "Sammy," he said gently, "it's fine. You can do this. Just go pay your respects and then come back—I'll be right here."
A sickly but grateful smile twitched Sam's face. Then he shoved his hands into his pants pockets and started walking.
Geez, it felt like watching him walk into kindergarten for the first time by himself again. Dean shook his head and went to find a parking space.
He watched the funeral through binoculars from the cover of a nearby mausoleum. Picked out the eight scattered, supposedly hidden cops without any difficulty, then trailed over the faces of the mourners. There were a lot of them, but no one stuck out. Well, no one besides Gigantor standing awkwardly in their midst, his face ashen and somber with a loss nobody else there would understand. Dean's focus strayed repeatedly back to him, and he chewed his lip as he saw Sam rub the back of his hand over his face.
Stupid friggin' demons.
The funeral finally ended. Sam talked to a few people, face carefully composed. Then, hands buried deep in his pockets again, he headed back to Dean. Dean couldn't help notice Sam avoided the obvious route that took him near two of the watching cops, taking the longer but less visible path, and felt a private stab of pride. Even when he was hurting, the kid was a Winchester.
He didn't ask if Sam had found out anything useful; he would have told Dean if he had, and it'd been a long shot, anyway. They drove back to the room in silence, Dean's thump of his brother's shoulder before getting in the only communication needed.
Sam balked at the motel door.
"I'm gonna…I need to…take a walk or something. All right?"
It took Dean a second to realize Sam was asking, not telling him. Taking off was still a sensitive subject. "Yeah, sure," he stumbled over the words, not so much what he wanted to say as what he thought Sam needed. "You got your phone?"
Sam pulled it out and held it up wordlessly, eyes fixed on the door behind Dean.
"Okay." He hesitated still. "You all right, dude?"
It was more a grimace than a smile. "I'm fine."
Right. Lies it was. "Yeah, okay. Call if you need me to pick you up, okay?"
Sam nodded, spun on his heels, and started walking.
Dean stared after him a long minute before going into the room.
It was empty and quiet. Not that Sam had exactly been a chatterbox the last few days, but his presence still filled the place somehow, or at least the empty spots in Dean. With Sam gone, it was just…too quiet, and Dean thumbed the TV on as he headed into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face.
He could keep looking for Ava. The laptop sat open and asleep on the table by the window. Or he could look up and see how Gordie's case was moving through the system; that always made him smile. Dean hadn't even really had time to check the 'pala over since he'd left her standing with her door open for hours while Gordon had him tied up.
But his head still ached from the residuals of that fight, and Sam lay heavy in his thoughts, and Dean knew he wouldn't get anything useful done that afternoon. Maybe he'd just take advantage of his restless roommate being gone and grab a nap. God knew, neither of them had been sleeping enough since…well, since Rivergrove, actually. He'd wake up when Sam got back, and then there was always a chance all that walking would stir up an appetite.
His bed was still a frenzy of twisted blankets and sheets and the spilled contents of both their duffels as Dean had sought to assemble one clean outfit for Sam from both their wardrobes. The tie had been his, as had the socks.
The cufflinks had been Dad's.
His head gave an exceptionally vicious throb. With a groan, Dean gave up on his bed and crawled onto Sam's neatly made one instead—freak—curling up onto his side. Frowning when he felt something, and he levered his heavy head up long enough to reach under the pillow. Sam's 9 mil. Right. 'Cause his brother always slept with armament.
Sighing, Dean sank back into the pillow. After a second, it registered that the linen smelled like shampoo, the fruity green stuff Sam used. It actually wasn't that bad, for all the grief Dean gave him over it. He pressed his nose into the pillowcase, heaved a deep breath, then let himself sink into sleep.
00000
The dim light of the room and the cottony feel in his head told Dean he'd slept longer than he'd meant to even before he rolled over and looked at the clock.
Past nine? Do you know where your kid is? Even if he was taking a tour of Peoria, Sam should've been back by now.
Dean pushed up, impatiently rubbing sleep out of his eyes and a hand over his head. Crap. He shouldn't have gone to sleep. Sam was a big boy and didn't need a chaperone, but he didn't exactly have his head on straight at the moment, and it wasn't like him to stay out for hours. Okay, yeah, except for when he took off on Dean in the middle of the night, but—not going there. This was different. It was.
Dean stretched to grab his jacket and fished his cell out. No missed calls, he noted absently as he thumbed speed dial and listened to the phone ring.
And ring. And ring. And go to voice mail. Even on his mailbox message, Sam sounded world-weary.
Dean muttered unkind things under his breath about AWOL little brothers and oversleeping big brothers and damn stupid friggin' demons while he jammed his feet into his boots and shrugged his jacket on. When he got Sam back, he was going to tie him to his bed, swear to God.
Dean just had to find him first.
Okay, so… The cool night air cleared his head a little, and Dean glanced around the parking lot with a little more sharpness. The car was still there, of course. And Sam had been gone…about five hours. On foot, that could mean he was halfway across town, but Dean didn't think so. No, Sam liked to settle in somewhere to brood. Dean flipped mentally through what he'd seen around the area. Library and McDonald's and the YMCA were quickly discounted. The local park? Maybe, but not a first choice. Bar down the street, the more upscale place Dean had grimaced at and not given a second thought to?
Yeah. That would work. Sam would fit right in there with the suit and the Stanford education and his taste for girly different-colored drinks. Dean bounced the keys in his hand and headed for his car.
He parked at the edge of the bar's—sorry, club's—lot, sparing a moment of amusement at the sight of all the Beemers, sports cars, and, yeah, okay, a pretty sweet little vintage Porsche. Not that he would've traded his baby for any of them, but, all right, some rich people actually knew what to do with their money. Shaking his head, Dean headed into the yuppie enclave.
The cheerful crowd of well-dressed drunks coming out had him side-stepping with an indulgent smile. Maybe the place wasn't as stiff as he thought. Dean started to turn away and reach for the door.
And then the mop of dark hair that he'd been trained to find most of his life caught his eye. Right in the middle of the departing raucous crowd.
There weren't that many kids in the group, maybe a half-dozen, all Sam's age give-or-take. It didn't take Dean long to shove his way past the outer layer and reach his brother, arm slung haphazardly over the shoulders of a guy who looked like an NFL early draft pick. Dean ignored him, focusing instead on his swaying brother.
"Sam?"
The dark head lurched halfway up, to reveal a flushed and hazy Sam. "'ean?" The hand that wasn't draped over the football player reached up to brush clumsily over Dean's jacket. "Dean." It seemed about all he was capable of formulating at that moment.
Dean frowned, moving a few inches closer despite the growing scowl of the quarterback and the buzz of the others in the group. Hands tried to shunt him aside, urgent explanations of he's just stiffed and lighten up, dude, and hey, we got him washing over him unheard, but Dean didn't budge. Sam had been upset and, yeah, that had a tendency to compromise his judgment. And to Dean's eternal embarrassment and amusement, his little brother didn't exactly hold his liquor all that well. But something wasn't right here, and it wasn't even the fact that Sammy was apparently too drunk to stand without help, or had been about to leave with a bunch of strangers.
Sam's mouth twisted into a bewildered smile, his hand finally finding a grip on Dean's sleeve. "Dean," he repeated, less certainly this time, and his eyes finally made contact with his brother's.
His bloodshot and dilated eyes.
The tsunami of rage that came with sudden comprehension took even Dean by surprise.
He was pretty sure he disentangled his brother from Mr. All-American first. Sam ended up watching the whole thing safely from the sidelines, his ridiculously long legs tucked up almost to his ears as he sat on the curb, so, yeah, Dean figured he got his brother out of the way first somehow. He also seemed to recall asking a question in an extremely calm voice of the quarterback and his buddies, something along the lines of What did you give him? Honestly, though, he couldn't remember. Couldn't even really see past the curtain of red that settled over his vision, but that had never stopped him before.
When he was done, there were a half-dozen bodies strewn around the parking lot in various stages of injury and unconsciousness. Dean went through pockets, taking anything valuable he found, until he got to the half-empty bubble-pack of white pills in the jacket of a guy who could've been Muscle Man's twin. Suspicions confirmed, Dean broke the guy's nose and probably his cheekbone before he left the pills on the blacktop beside him. Maybe the cops would figure it out and maybe they wouldn't. Dean was done.
He dropped in front of Sam, pushing back the dark hair, doing a quick frantic check of his brother. Sam was still smiling at him, but there was something very lost and bleak in his eyes, and Dean's stomach felt like it would churn right out of him. "You all right?" he finally managed, fingers gripping almost convulsively on Sam's jacket, his shirt, the stupid tie that hung loose around his neck now.
"Dean." And there was a world in that one word, the huge eyes that tried to focus on him.
Dean yanked him forward, one hand twisted in the soft hair at the nape of Sam's neck, the other flat across his back, his chin digging into Sam's shoulder. So close. So—his mind provided a dozen expletives—close. And not any friggin' demons, either, just friggin' humans. He shuddered.
"Dean?" Sam's voice was starting to slur, his confusion deepening and body succumbing.
"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat. There were sirens in the distance, a small knot of appalled onlookers crowded at the bar's door. "Yeah, we're okay. You're okay. I'm taking you home now."
Sam didn't respond, but he made an effort to get his feet under him as Dean pulled him up by clenched handfuls of his clothes. Sam's usual gawky grace was gone, replaced by stumbling, uncoordinated weakness. He couldn't have fought his way out of a wet paper bag, but Dean wasn't thinking about that, wasn't contemplating what those preppie freaks could have done to him while he was defenseless like this, what they'd intended. He was just concentrating on guiding Sam back to the car, settling his woozy brother into the front seat, and driving away from there. The feel of Sam's rising and falling chest against his knotted fingers, and the warm breath against Dean's shoulder when Sam finally tipped against him. The knowledge Sam was okay. God. Dean didn't know if it was plea or thanksgiving, just… God.
He parked the Impala behind the motel, just in case any of those witnesses had had their act together enough to note the car. Then he pulled Sam out of the seat and propped him up for the walk back to their room.
Inside, he dropped his brother on the end of Sam's bed, grasping an arm to keep the long body from tumbling back into repose. With his other hand, Dean grabbed for a nearby chair and dragged it close, sitting himself down right in front of Sam.
"Sam? Sammy, listen to me."
Sam made a visible effort to open his eyes wider, head rolling loosely on his neck.
Dean propped his brother's jaw with his other hand. "Sam? You hear me?"
A sloppy nod. Sam was fighting lethargy, his pupils huge, rimmed with irises that were a startlingly deep green.
Dean shifted. This wasn't fair, what he was about to do, but then, neither was some idiots drugging his brother. He was taking advantage of Sam, too, but motive and method had to count for something. He hadn't dosed Sam, and he'd never hurt him, but this… Dean gulped. This had scared him. No one should've been able to get the drop on Sam like that. Dean had to figure this out and soon before the kid got himself killed, or worse.
"Sammy," Dean dropped his voice, gentle where he'd been forceful before. "What's going on with you, man?"
Sam blinked, his eyes sliding off to the side before a small snap of Dean's hand returned them to his brother. His smile then was too wide, too painful. "Deeean."
"Yeah," Dean said, exasperated, "I know who I am, dude. Question is, what's messing with your freaky head, huh? Is it Ava? You know that's not your fault, right?"
Sam looked away. Not from a lapse of control, but with deliberate intent.
Dean's fingers dug into his jaw, his arm. "Sam, I need to know. You worried about—?"
"He would've killed me," Sam blurted out in a slurry rush.
Dean started. That was it? "Dude, Gordon's crazy, you know that. He's not gonna—"
"No." Sam's hair flew with the vehemence of his head-shaking. "No, Dean. Dad. Dad would've killed me. If I…" He faltered, frowning. "Dad. S'not…," he trailed off into a mumble.
Oh, Lord. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. That bastard. Yeah, their dad telling him he might have to kill his brother had eaten at Dean like a cancer. But finding out your father would've been willing to kill you? That was something he hadn't even thought of. And Sam had never been as sure of their dad's love as Dean had. This was…
This was Sam hurting, bottom line. And that was familiar territory.
Dean rubbed his eyes clear, letting Sam's chin sink to his chest when he let go. Then he grasped Sam's other arm, giving him a gentle shake. "Hey." The dark head twitched. Dean ducked down, looking into vague, forlorn eyes. "Hey. It'll be okay, Sammy. I promise, all right? We'll…we'll figure it out in the morning. You're with me now, and nobody's killing anybody, you hear me? Not tonight."
Sam looked at him. Then whispered a "yeah" that sounded more aware than anything else that evening.
Dean was already tilting him back, manhandling him higher on the bed. "It's okay." He rolled Sam to tug the covers out from under him, pausing as he jostled the pillow free and saw the gun. "It'll be better in the morning." Dean slipped the 9 mil into his pocket, lowered Sam's head to the pillow with one hand. "You're safe." Sam's dress shoes came off easily, and Dean tossed them to the floor without looking. "You're okay." He drew the blanket up to Sam's chin, then settled on the bed beside him.
"Dad?" Sam whispered, already losing the fight to sleep.
"He loved you, bro. More than you're ever gonna know. Just remember that." Dean had no idea how much Sam would take with him from this night, but he hoped the kid would hold on to that much. "He loved you, Sam."
Sam's stoned eyes shut and stayed that way.
Dean shoved a trembling hand through his hair, noticing belatedly it was bloody. Only some of it his blood, and his trembling grew to shudders. Sam had been drugged, almost a lot worse. Dean could have easily killed that night and never even felt it. And Dad had been willing to sacrifice Sam. It was too much, a scream in his head that made him want to tear out his hair and bash his forehead against the wall.
Instead, Dean grabbed Sam's wrist, fingers on the pulse point. He was almost positive Sam had just been roofied, and his breathing was fine, but Dean wasn't taking any more chances. He curled forward, head in his palm by his brother's shoulder, and grit his teeth until his jaw ached. Pushed down the frenzied panic that bubbled up his throat, pulled in the smell and feel and sound of his brother. They were okay. They were okay. Dad was dead and the world was screwed up and the damn stupid friggin' demons were still out there, but they were okay.
But not if he let something happen to Sam. Tonight had been too close, and that just…anything happening to Sam just wasn't an option. Sam had gotten in trouble because he was hurting and struggling, and Dean had been too wrapped up in his own pain to help. So this had to stop. Time to forget his loss—he couldn't even think about John right now—and focus on Sam, make sure he was all right. If he wasn't, Dean would never be, anyway.
"We're okay," he whispered into the silence, his hand sliding away from his forehead to close on that stupid tie, but his face still lowered nearly to the mattress. "We are."
He stayed there until his back ached and his fingers cramped, and the words weren't so much a lie.
00000
Sam never asked.
Dean nursed him through the hangover the next day, both pharmacological and alcoholic, with more sympathy than usual, although whether Sam noticed that, there was no telling. Dean did catch his brother's eyes on his scraped knuckles more than once, that thin furrow nestling occasionally in Sam's brow in the days that followed. But he didn't ask, and Dean was a big fan of don't ask, don't tell. He was still tempted to chew Sam out for letting himself get blindsided like that, but it wasn't like he remembered what had happened, and Dean finally let it go. It was an isolated incident, he would make sure of that, and Sam was finally talking—or being a little less broody, anyway—and that was enough for Dean.
Sam didn't check the local news for a while like he usually did, though, neatly missing the news about the bar fight that landed four people in the hospital. And Dean couldn't help wonder sometimes how much his little brother did recall.
The search for Ava was coming up empty. Two weeks they'd been at it, finding only dead ends. Dean was secretly starting to doubt they'd find anything, but Sam seemed to need to exhaust every possibility, and Dean could understand that. So they kept looking.
Dean pushed away the meteorological surveys for the area with a tired sigh, rubbing at the ache that seemed permanently planted behind his forehead.
"Y'all right?" Sam's voice, low with concern and fatigue of his own, brought Dean's head back up.
"Too much more of this and my eyes are gonna bleed, dude. I'm not even kidding." Dean shook his head, dropping his hand to the library table. "Dad was a genius at finding patterns—he would've figured this out by now."
There was a pause, long enough to draw Dean's gaze to his brother. Seeing the unexpectedly soft look in Sam's eyes—although, when wasn't the kid going all doe-eyed on him?—made Dean mentally replay his words. And, huh, he'd actually mentioned Dad without sounding like he was swallowing a rock. No wonder Sam was looking like he was about to hug him.
Dean opened his mouth to quickly avert that catastrophe with something funny and totally off-topic, but his brother beat him to it. "Oh, I don't know, man, you're pretty good at patterns, too. I mean, you gotta be at something, right?" His smile was like sunshine.
Dean smirked back, feeling the double-clutch of relief and love. What would he have done without this floppy-haired geek after their dad had died? He watched Sam as his brother's head dipped back to his reading. Then cleared his throat. "You know Dad loved you, right?"
That wasn't what he'd meant to say. Honest. Not here, certainly not this way.
Sam's face reflected puzzlement and surprise, too, as he returned his full attention to Dean. "Yeah," he stammered. "'Course."
"Good." Dean nodded. "That's good." Geez, could he sound any more like a dork? He quickly dropped his gaze back to the surveys, unseeing.
There was a beat of silence. Then Sam, sounding almost whimsical: "But he was kind of a bastard, too, you know?"
Dean stared up at him, mouth a little bit ajar. Waiting for the well of bitterness, the defensiveness that had characterized his life in the middle between two stubborn Winchesters. But nothing came out except a small, startled laugh. "Yeah."
Sam chortled a little back, a moment of connection they hadn't had in…man, just way too long. They were orphans, maybe, but still brothers.
Another moment, and Sam got quiet. "Or maybe he just trusted you to do the right thing."
Dean blinked. Stared at him a long few seconds, wondering if he was talking about what Dean thought he was talking about. If I couldn't save you, I'd have to kill you. That Dean would save him. That that was what Dad had always expected. That maybe even that was why he'd chosen Dean over himself.
Dean's throat worked a moment. "You really are a total girl, you know that?" he said roughly.
Sam's entire face creased into a laugh.
And, God help him, Dean thought they might just survive all this, after all.
The End