As far as hunts went, it wasn't especially unusual. New town, old monsters. Same old, same old. The town was new, but it felt the same as all the others. A main street with a bookshop, a travel agent and a pharmacy. A town square that had a library at one end and bus station at the other as if this one place was trying to tell about all the places that weren't here, and begging you to find them. The sad feel of boarded up lives, where you either got out, or died where you were born. The motel same as it always was, with pealed paint and the faint aroma of quick hook-ups and sad letdowns. A stove top with only one working element, which didn't matter because the only pot had a hole in the bottom, three lights each with a different wattage and two beds which could tell stories that would make your toes curl. And the monster wasn't even new, same fang, same MO, same messy death. There was, as the good book once said, nothing new under the sun.
And yet here they are.
If anyone was to see them, they would think they are in mourning, that they had just suffered a loss that neither could understand, and in a way that was true. The confusion when old wounds, long thought healed reopened to show they never, ever did. Sam is confused because he did exactly what Dean had asked, and now he recognises that what Dean wanted, and what Dean needed are often traumatically, irrecoverably different. And Dean, well Dean is just confused about everything. He is confused because he thought he was in control, he is confused because he had never expected to face it and he is confused because his chest hurts, and his lungs hurt and his head hurts and he can not believe for a second that it anything but terminal.
And they both wish with all their being that they had never taken this goddammed case.
There was a news article just like there always was. A phone call just like there always was. A few beers, late night internet search and a loaded car on the road to a town 600 miles away. Just like there always was. The sign greeted them "Welcome to Nowheresville, population getting fewer by the day", or at least that's what it felt like to them. Another nowhere town, with corpses piling up, and no-one else with the first clue about what was going on. But they had clues, they had plenty of clues and they knew what to do with them. So carry on, family business, we've got work to do, all their mantras over and over again. And they did it, like they always did. But that wasn't the problem. That wasn't why Sam is sitting here without the first clue to help his brother, and why Dean is sitting here, rapidly descending, spiralling.
They just wanted a drink. It had seemed so innocent, so fucking simple.
They had dispatched the fang with simplicity, found the nest, and dealt to that with the same precision. They were back being "The Winchester Boys". The ones that both hunters and monsters alike talked about on dark nights around their fires. And The Winchester Boys, with any doubt in their mind, knew they needed to bathe. Well, what they really wanted was an ice cold beer, but they knew that there was no way they would be served in the state they were in, head to toe in extraneous vamp, so they headed back to their no-tell motel to clean themselves up, then head into town. A town, as they were subsequently told by the woman making cow eyes at Sam at reception, that was dry. There are few things that mystified Dean Winchester more than the concept of a dry town. What purpose does that even serve, people lived and died the same as everywhere else, why make that harder by having to do it sober? But a dry town is a dry town, and that meant no ice cold, soothing, refreshing, liquid of the gods for the Winchester Boys. There's a convenience store across the way, or so cow-eyes told them, where they could get a Coke. So a bourbonless Coke it was. And Sam is now convinced that that Coke was the most costly drink either of the boys had ever had.
Just like the town, just like the hunt, the store was the same as always. Counter up the front, shelves down the middle, fridges at the back. Sam didn't need a map, it was almost instinctual at this point, but the kid at the counter still asked him if he needed any help. He said he was good, but turned to see if Dean needed anything. And Dean obviously needed something, but it wasn't in that store. Dean needed to be taken somewhere quiet, somewhere to regroup. He needed to be able to go somewhere where this pain in his chest would stop and where he could take a breath without it burning in his lungs. He needed to be somewhere where his head didn't feel like he was underwater and life was moving in slow motion. He could see Sam saying something but it was like he was watching a movie that had been dubbed, his words were muffled and not in sync with his mouth. Sam was looking at him, then looking over to the counter then looking back, like he was watching some sick, twisted tennis match. Dean, Sam was saying, you have to move. But that was easy for him to say, his feet were still in his own shoes, not these blocks of concrete Dean was now wearing. Dean, Sam was saying, we have to go, you're scaring him. Scaring him? I'm scaring him? Dean wondered how he could feel like a lump of granite unable to move and a feather that could blow away at the same time. Is he okay? the boy asked. It's all good, Sam said. He's a Vet, he has PTSD. He has episodes. That's okay, I get it, the boy said. My mom used to have a boyfriend with PTSD. I don't remember much about him though, just that he was a really good guy. That's good, Sam said. It's good that he was good, not that you don't remember him. I have to get my brother home. I can help, the boy said, I can ring my mom and she can come and get you and take you home. And just like that Dean was moving. Moving so fast that the world turned on its axis and hurricanes were created. He was gone. Leaving behind more confusion. It's fine, Sam said to the boy, we are just across the way. Thanks anyway.
Goddamned dry town, Sam thinks, I will burn you to the ground.
So here they were, in their beat-up, broken down hotel, watching Dean bleed out all over the floor. Years old scars opening up letting out things they both thought had been long forgotten and forgiven. Sam finally realising that not remembering is not the same as forgetting, and Dean just wishing that he could do both. It's okay Dean, Sam says, you'll be okay. I didn't see him, Dean says, I didn't see him until he spoke and then …. I know, Sam says, but you'll be okay. I promise. We've done it once, we can do it again. You don't get it Sam, Dean says. No Dean doesn't say, Dean whispers, like the very words will break him down the middle if he says them too loud. I don't know if I can leave him again. You have to, Sam says, it's better for you and Ben if you forget you ever saw him. You don't get it, whispers Dean, you just don't understand. What don't I understand Dean, Sam is whispering now as well.
Sam, Ben is my son.