Inspired by Jeanne

Unfinished Business
K Hanna Korossy

So, it was Atlantic City, Dean thought as he navigated the hotel hallways only slightly drunkenly. Guy came here, he was supposed to drink, gamble, and fool around. Okay, so he'd actually banked the majority of Bela's payoff money first thing, leaving only a grand to parlay into more—and man, had he parlayed, Samuel Singer's bank account now almost twenty big ones richer—but Sam didn't need to know that. In fact, part of the reason Dean had taken his sweet time downstairs—oh, yes, she'd been sweet—was his hope Sam would be asleep when Dean got back to the room.

Because honestly, Atlantic City or no, he hadn't really wanted to go out and party by himself that evening. It wasn't like he had all that much time left with Sam, and there was no one else Dean wanted to be with more. But Sam, to put it nicely, was being an ass.

Dean had meant what he'd said in the car the night before: he got it. He understood why Sam had killed the crossroads demon even if he hadn't agreed, he knew why Sam was so upset, and he felt for Sam, he really did. Nothing was worse than losing your brother, and Dean had just shifted that weight from his shoulders to Sam's. Not that he could or would do anything to change the deal he made, but it hadn't taken long for him to realize the burden he was inflicting on Sam, and…he was deeply sorry for that.

But he'd also meant the rest. Sam was stronger than he was. Sammy could start over, build himself a new life. Yeah, the whole demon menace thing was still out there, but Dean still had more than a half a year to get that settled. He hated how much Sam was hurting, but he was just as sure the kid would be all right. He had to be.

Sam just refused to see it that way.

Dean paused at yet another juncture of identical-looking hallway, not quite certain which way to turn. Wearily, he dropped his forehead against a nearby wall and pulled in a deep breath.

"Sir?"

He didn't even look up. "Three-eighteen?"

"To your right, sir."

Dean saluted with two fingers, tipped around the corner, and kept going. He always kept going.

Sam hadn't even given him a chance to finish saying his piece in the car. He'd interrupted to tell Dean to go screw himself, that he didn't need to worry about Sam—yeah, as if the guy didn't keep looking at him like a lost puppy—and he was a big boy now who could take care of himself. Conveniently forgetting he'd taken care of himself right to death just a few months before. Dean hadn't expected thanks for what he'd done, but he hadn't been prepared to be chewed out for it, either. He'd given up everything; was a little peaceful company from his brother so much to ask in return?

Three-eighteen. There. Dean stared at the room a moment, then quietly fumbled his keycard to open the door.

He'd left Sam writing stonily in his journal, probably documenting the case of the two ghost brothers in excruciating detail. Dean had noticed he wrote a lot more these days, and some part of him was glad Sam was being more serious about the hunt, preparing himself to go solo. The other part? Dean didn't listen to the other part.

The lights were dimmed and the journal had disappeared. But Sam still sat at the table in the glow of the one lamp, awake and waiting.

Terrific. Dean curbed the urge to turn around and walk right back out.

"You were gone a long time."

For an opening volley, it was pretty neutral. Dean shrugged as he headed for the bathroom. "Lots to do downstairs. You should've come down—oh, right. You were busy. Never mind." He flicked on the light switch, taking a second to admire the sparkling white-tiled room that was bigger than some motel rooms they'd stayed in. Had to do Atlantic City in style, after all, and Dean absently wondered if Sam fit in this shower.

"All this time, and that is all you have to say for yourself?"

Dean sighed, gazing bleakly at the bloodshot eyes that stared back at him from the mirror, then ducking down to splash some water on his face. The buzz was already starting to recede, leaving only fatigue and a headache in its wake. "I didn't know I had to answer to you," he muttered.

"You're my brother."

He rubbed a ridiculously fluffy towel over his face. "Yeah, not your old man, so cut it out, Sam."

"Mother would be so disappointed."

Dean almost dropped the towel. A shiver of pure cold skittered down his spine. He stepped back to the doorway, narrowing his eyes at Sam, who sat in exactly the same spot. "What did you say?"

"Mother. She always told you to look out for me," Sam said accusingly.

Anger—no, sheer rage—threatened, because neither of them ever, ever used Mom like that against the other. That was sacred ground, and not even at his most furious, when Dean had wanted nothing more than to punch his brother in the face, when he'd even done so, had he ever gone there. His fist curled automatically at his side.

But…there was something off about all this, too. When his brother was mad, he practically vibrated with it, pacing and flinging his hands, shouting. This stillness wasn't Sam. And neither was "mother." Since when had their mom been anything but "Mom"?

Dean's brows drew together, his hands loosening, suddenly itching for a weapon, or maybe some holy water. "You feeling okay?"

"How could you do this to your own brother?" Sam snapped.

And then Dean knew.

Not that this should have been possible. They'd done the ritual to summon the older-brother spirit to deal with the younger. Dean had watched the two of them face off in the graveyard, the wronged younger flinging himself at the older, merging and dispersing in a splash of spectral water. It was supposed to be over. Not to mention the rarity of ghosts possessing people in the first place.

Then again, if Sam had been possessed, or even just a little bit influenced, in the car during their argument…

Okay, that was so not what was important right now. Dean arched an eyebrow and he held his hands a little out to his side. What was the sailor's name again? Uh, "Peter?"

Sam's jaw clenched, an unfamiliar darkness in his eyes. Like murder.

Dean moved a little closer to him. "Peter, listen to me. What happened, it's over, right? You're dead, your brother's long gone, and you had your little showdown already, remember? Time to go home now."

"You were supposed to look out for me—I looked up to you," Sam said low and tight, the inflection of the words foreign. "Instead, you killed me, your little brother."

Dean couldn't help wince at that one. "Maybe…he must've had a good reason…" It sounded lame to him, too. Nothing could make him pull that trigger on Sam.

Sam shot to his feet, startling Dean into jerking back from him. "What reason? I stole because I was hungry, but even had I killed a man, you should have helped me, not strung me up like a common criminal."

A wave of dizziness unexpectedly washed over Dean. He blinked, refocused on Sam. "You stole because—" Another attack of vertigo, and he shot out a hand to balance himself on the table. "Whoa. I don't…"

And suddenly, he wasn't alone inside his skin.

"You stole another man's rations," Dean heard his voice say. "You knew that was a hanging offense, Peter. I tried to save you, but I had no choice."

"You always have a choice, William," Sam/Peter seethed. "It is always your responsibility."

It wasn't like any possession Dean had ever felt. There was no malice, no pain or sensation of being shoved into the corner of his body and locked away. His limbs just moved of their own accord, words spilling out of his mouth without his permission, and he seemed to be looking through a layer of sepia gauze. As Dean's gaze shifted, Sam looked like he had longer hair, darker eyes, rounder features. "I tried, Peter—good God, don't you think I tried? But if I would have spared you, there would have been anarchy. A captain must put the good of his ship first."

"Before his own brother," Peter said bitterly.

"It killed me to do it." Dean's voice dropped to a whisper. "I did not outlive you long, Peter."

Peter paused at that, uncertainty flooding Sam's face for the first time. "What?"

"If I could not save you, I did not want to live, either. What I did, I had to, but I am so sorry."

Peter was silent a long minute, Sam's large hands clenching open and shut. "I loved you," he finally admitted, voice dying into hurt. "I worshipped you all my life, William."

"I know," William whispered. "I loved you, too. I am sorry."

A few seconds passed, then Peter slowly nodded. "It is time to go, isn't it."

"Yes," William agreed, nodding. "But together now."

The dark, angry face slowly softened, shifting from murderer to brother. Then began to grow brighter, like the sun rising. Like Molly, and their father, finding their peace.

Dean felt his own skin warm, William slipping out of him like a sigh.

Sam swayed and plopped back into the chair as if his energy had drained out along with the ghost.

Dean reeled, too, momentarily lightheaded, but managed to clutch the edge of another chair for balance. Sam stared at him, eyes huge and stunned, and Dean numbly stared back.

"Dean?" Sam said hesitantly.

The voice seemed to snap the spell that held him frozen there. Dean blinked, shook his head. Only his thoughts were spinning now, not his head, and he glanced around the room, suddenly feeling trapped, closed in. Without a word, he turned and strode toward the door.

"Dean!" Sam called after him, but Dean only heard it at a distance as the door shut behind him, and he never slowed.

00000

He ended up in the car. Really, where else did he have to go?

The neon and glitz of the city around him suddenly seemed harsh, bringing an odd rush of homesickness for open road and small, plain motel rooms and the simple life of hunting and bars and just shooting the breeze with Sam. But they'd never really had that, had they? They'd always careened from crisis to crisis: Sam mourning Jess, Sam's burgeoning abilities, their losing Dad, Sam's destiny. And now Dean had nine friggin' months to make it all right and just maybe, possibly, spend a few happy minutes with his brother to offset an eternity of Hell. Whom had he ticked off so badly that he couldn't even have that much?

Dean thumped his fist against his thigh. What was he even doing there? Sam had just been possessed, for God's sake, and Dean was sulking in his car. But sometimes the push-pull of wanting to be with Sam and the pain of seeing his hurt and anger was too much, and Dean just wanted to stop. Just for a little while, to just be. To breathe again without wanting to scream. Just—

The Impala's passenger door opened, and Sam slid inside as if he had every right to be there. Which, okay, he did.

Dean's mouth tightened and he looked away, out the side window.

"You all right?" For all the lack of hesitation in his actions, Sam's voice held an ocean of uncertainty.

"Terrific."

Sam nodded. "So, uh… Guess they had some unfinished business, huh?"

"Guess so," Dean agreed tonelessly. Across the street, it looked like a bachelor party was stumbling down the block, wasted and laughing uproariously.

"You think they're gone for good now?"

Dean still didn't turn, just tilted the silent EMF meter he held in his lap toward Sam. "And I had a bunch of really salty nuts at the bar," he added.

Sam snorted behind him, as if he couldn't help it.

Dean found the tension creeping out of his shoulders as it always did in response to Sam's laugh, like some sort of programmed reaction. He rotated his gaze back partway, to the steering wheel.

"Dean…what they said…"

He sighed. "Older brother always tries to protect the younger, Sam. That's just how it is."

He could see Sam's nod out of his peripheral vision. "But maybe…maybe protecting the younger can mean protecting himself, too. 'Cause even if the younger one can take care of himself, that doesn't mean he doesn't need his big brother, too."

Dean's throat felt like it swelled shut at the words, the soft, hopeful tone. "Sam—"

"Just…hypothetically speaking, all right? Just think about it."

It was a bigger request than it seemed, but if it would make anything better, at least for Sam, Dean didn't really have the strength to say no. He nodded silently.

Sam echoed him.

They sat in the relative quiet of the car, both of them staring out through the windshield as the city life flowed around them. Always their own island. Or oasis. Dean only wanted—

"Let's just go, Dean."

He blinked, turning in confusion to Sam, who looked back at him almost pleadingly. "Come again?"

"What are we even doing here? I mean…let's get out of here, all right? Head out west, hit that diner in Illinois with the foot-high pies, or that place in Indiana with the awesome go-kart tracks, and…roll down the windows and just go."

Dean stared at him.

Sam flushed, looking down at his knees, his mouth quirking. "Never mind, forget it. Go hit the roulette wheel and have some fun. You deserve—"

God, he loved this kid so much sometimes, it hurt too. But in a whole different way. "Get your stuff," Dean rolled out in a rush.

Sam's head came back up. "What?"

"Get your stuff. We're leaving."

His brother's eyebrow quirked, half amusement, half puzzlement. "Dean, I didn't mean we had to go right now."

"You'll have to drive for a while 'cause I had a few, but we're going."

Sam, thank God, didn't question further, just paused a moment, then nodded and got out of the car. Dean watched him walk away, the body language one hundred-percent Sam's now, growing more energized with each step.

Dean shook his head. He'd been an idiot, yet again. In all Sam's hurt, all their recent arguments and awkwardness and unnamed fear, somehow Dean had never considered that Sam might want to just be for a little bit, too. And with him. How could he have missed that?

Right, because they hadn't been distracted at all lately.

Dean's chest loosened, air clearing out some of the heaviness in his lungs, and he reached in back for his notebook, opening up to a fresh page. Hell still loomed ahead, and he couldn't bring himself to either think about it or fight it, not right now. But after a couple of slow days on the road with Sammy, no hunting or researching or worrying for a little while…maybe.

Dean chewed on the pen cap a moment, then started writing.

With Sam, for Sam, pretty much everything was possible.

The End