Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue
We Used to Play for Keeps (but I don't know anymore)
Dean dreams of the time he was ten and his Dad left him and Sam at Pastor Jim's for the summer. He remembers how it rained most of the time, thunder and lightning and tornado warnings practically every week. They would sit in Jim's little kitchen playing cards listening to the raindrops pounding against the roof; Goldfish and Old Maid, because Sammy was still too young to understand games like Bullshit and Slap. Sometimes Jim would tell them stories, not fairy tales, but anecdotes about his time in the church or in university. And then, other times, he would read them stuff like Huck Finn, or Tom Sawyer.
Mostly though, he dreams of the nights; Sammy curled up in the bed, small and warm, the way the only window in their little room would rattle in the frame, how Pastor Jim would sit with Dean when he couldn't sleep.
He dreams of the night it became too much, missing his dad, missing his mom, missing everything. He hears Pastor Jim, who never forgot Dean was a boy and not an adult, whispering gently in his ear while Dean cried.
"Sometimes it gets hard and we miss everything a lot, and it's never going to go back to the way it was. But your Dad's coming back for you. He'll come back, and you've just got to remember that there will always be someone there for you, okay? No matter how alone you think you are, Dean, there's always someone looking out for you."
Dean wakes up before he can ask who.
……
Someone knocks on the door. Dean lays awake, hands under his head, staring at the ceiling. He debates about not answering, pretending to be asleep, but the sun coming in from the window is too bright and he's going to be getting up anyway.
"Yeah?"
Jo enters, a smile on her face. She's carrying a tray that looks ancient. There's a glass of orange juice and a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast. Dean's stomach rumbles. They didn't stop for dinner last night, and now the breakfast looks like a feast for kings.
"Thanks." He says, grabbing the plate and fork before digging in.
"Don't thank me. Mom thought you two needed a good breakfast." She shakes her head. "Tried to get your brother, but he's still asleep. Must've been real tired."
Dean smiles. "Yeah, once he's out, he's out."
"You two plannin' on stayin' long?"
There's the demon to hunt, other leads to follow. But Sam might want to stay. Sam always wanted to stay.
"Don't know."
"You should at least stay 'til dinner. Mom makes one mean stew."
Dean shrugs noncommittally.
Sam gets up sometime in the afternoon. Dean has been showered and dressed for awhile. People come in and out of the Roadhouse. Most of them stare at him like he's some new species never before seen. He can feel their eyes on the back of his neck.
One guy even approaches him, "You Winchester's boy?" He asks. He's got a strong accent that Dean can't place and it comes out sounding like, Yew J'ahn Winchesta's boh?
"What's it to you?" Dean says calmly, taking a swig of his beer.
The man gives a deep laugh and calls out to Ellen, "I'll be goddamned, sounds just like him, don't he?" Ah'll be gawdamed, saunds jus' like 'im, doan 'e?
"Leave him alone, Carl." She says.
At first Dean thinks Carl's not going to take her advice, but then he gives another laugh, holds up his hands and backs away, still smiling. He slides into a chair at a table across the room, and Jo goes to take his order.
Sam slides into the seat next to Dean, but his eyes go to Ellen. "Who's he?" Sam asks when Ellen comes over with a glass of water and a plate of food for him.
She shrugs, "That's just Carl. Ain't nobody worth worryin' about, hon."
"I take it he knew our Dad?"
Now Ellen gives a deep chuckle, "There ain't many here that didn't know him."
Dean keeps his eyes on his beer, even though he can feel Ellen staring at him.
……
It's almost like people know. That's the way it feels. The hunters trickle into the Roadhouse like a rowdy funeral procession. But Dean would be the first to admit he's paranoid, so maybe it's all in his head.
He spends most of his time out with the car, around back. It developed a rattle somewhere along the interstate. He fixes it quickly on the first day, but he feels like the excuse will last him until Sam stops looking like somebody just kicked his puppy, and is able to get back on the road again.
The sun is warm on his back. He takes a break, leaning against the hood of the car. He cleans the grease off his hands with a rag he found in the trunk. It's an old shirt that died in the line of duty. Whatever logo was on it is gone, faded beyond recognition like Dean's memories of birthday parties and backyards before it all went to hell.
It's quiet out here. Most of the hunters prefer to drop by later in the day. They've got rooms in town, or sleep camped at rest stops. Some are hard, with scars that tell more stories than the words that come out of their mouths. Some are loud and obnoxious, quick to smile and laugh, they name their guns after women and if Dean hears one more Long Tall Sally joke, he's going to hurt someone. Seriously.
But then there's Sam, who gets up in the morning; Sam who sits at the tables sharing a beer and sharing a laugh, shy and hunched, hiding his height, but not quite willing to hide himself away.
In those few hours before and after, when it's just him and Sam again, Dean can almost see the change in his brother.
He never told Sam about when he was eighteen and he got accepted to MIT. Not a full ride, not quite as smart as Sammy, but some money and promises. Enough to make him sit in the dark of his room and stare at the letter like it would tell him what to decide. Dean had never been like Sam, had never been secretive with Dad. He'd told him, shown him the letter. Dean remembers the way John's eyes had shone in the lamp light of the living room. The journal had been open, resting on the coffee table. John never said I'm proud of you. And he never said if you leave, don't bother coming back.
He said, Whatever you decide, Deano. And he'd looked so old right then. For the first time Dean had really realized that they were all getting older, falling apart at the seams. His decision had been made for him a long time ago.
"You want some lunch, Dean?"
He looks up. "What is it?"
"Whatever I make." Ellen answers. She has a dishtowel thrown over her shoulder. She cocks her head to the side. "Why don't you come on in here? I got some cold beer. Got your name on it."
"Not really in the mood for beer." He says trying to sound disinterested instead of distant.
"You sure? Sam said you might be hungry."
"Yeah, I'm sure."
She shrugs like she's suddenly bored of this conversation. "Whatever you decide, Deano."
Dean freezes. He meets her eyes, trying to figure it out if he heard her correctly. He can imagine Dad standing here, matching her word for word, all cool confidence and hard edges, kids hidden in some dark motel room in another state, waiting for him to come home.
He turns away wondering when being a smartass became more of a chore than anything else. He hears her go inside. There's a sound like Sam laughing, before the door closes behind her with a bang, leaving Dean to fix a car that's no longer broken.
…..
Tonight it's not Pastor Jim in the summer, but Gordy, tied to the chair like Dean left him. Only he's got yellow eyes and his voice is different; harsher, inhuman. He watches Dean with a smile on his face and says,
"Guess your Dad didn't tell you everything."
He jerks awake with the knowledge there's someone in his room. He reaches for his knife before he registers who it is. Slowly, he relaxes.
"No offense, but this whole you watching me in my sleep thing is kinda creepy."
Ellen laughs. "Actually, I came in here to wake you up. Was walkin' by when I heard you gettin' restless." She leans on the dresser. "Nightmare?"
"Nah. I don't have nightmares."
She laughs again. "You sound a lot like your Daddy."
"So people keep telling me."
Frowning, Ellen comes over and sits on the bed. "John always had this thing when something was bothering him. He would shut up like a vault and you'd be sure you'd never be able to get anything out of him. He used to talk about you two, though, you know. All the damn time. Come in and tell me stories about the stuff you'd done." She lays her hand on his arm. "He was so proud of you, Dean. You and Sam both."
Dean turns his face away. Outside, there is no moon. Her hand is warm on his skin.
……..
By the afternoon, the clouds that were there in the morning have disappeared. If he stares off into the horizon for long enough, he can see the pavement shimmering. The air is heavy, but there's just enough of a breeze to tell Dean that by evening, the temperature will have dropped, and the world will be bearable again.
He left Sam behind. Dean closes his eyes, and tries to breathe deeply. Eventually, it's too hard to keep going, so he tosses his duffel bag on the ground, and follows it. He sits at the side of the road, not quite sure what he's waiting for, only sure that he'll never get up again. He can't.
Ellen finds him sometime later. Dean's still sitting at the side of the road. He hears her footsteps on the gravel. When he turns his head slightly he can see her figure out of the corner of his eye. In the fading afternoon light she almost looks like Mom.
"Can't stay here all night." She says.
"Can't tell me what to do." Dean brushes invisible dirt from his jeans, refusing to look at her. He stares at the setting sun; red sky at night, sailors delight.
"Jo used to tell me that…when she was five."
He shrugs.
"Why don't you come on back, Dean?" She stands beside him. "I'll make some hot chocolate."
He laughs despite himself. "Don't do hot chocolate."
"Well, what do you do?"
That's an awfully good question.
"Dean?"
When Dean was sick at the age of four, John took a week off of work to stay with him even though Mom was still alive. After, John could never stay home, at first it was because he was the only one bringing in money, and later, Dean used to believe it was because he and Sam were both too old.
"He never mentioned you." Dean says.
"John was a tightlipped man."
"None of this. He never mentioned a single damn thing."
"Your father had his way of dealing with--"
"Bullshit." And it is. This is just the first time he's ever been able to admit it out loud.
"Dean…"
"No." Dean shakes his head, getting up, moving away from her, from these stupid fucking secrets. "No. You don't get to defend him."
Ellen doesn't move.
"I don't know why…"
"Why what?" She asks. And her voice is all sympathy, understanding because she thinks she knows; thinks she knows every goddamn thing there is to know about Dean and Dad and Sammy.
"Dean, he didn't keep this from you to hurt you, if that's what you think--"
"Then why the fuck did he do it?" Dean screams.
Ellen flinches away from him. There's a long echoing silence between them. Dean is breathing hard, his hands clenched at his side. He wants her to tell him. He wants her to explain it, how his dad could do this, keep things like this quiet. Keep things like Sam quiet.
Her eyes are dark shadows, but Dean thinks he can see the fear there as she says quietly. "I can't give you the answers, Dean." He turns away from her. "That's for someone else."
"Who else?" He breathes. "Who the fuck else is there?"
And maybe he's crying just a little bit, just enough, because he can't cry anymore than this, can't explain anymore than this. He can't say my Dad wasn't who I thought he was.
And Ellen can't understand no matter how hard she tries. They stand in the fading sunlight, a standoff. Out in the open, there's nobody to break the tension. Dean picks up his bag, and starts back to the Roadhouse. Sam's waiting, and Sam's all Dean has left. He thinks he hears Ellen following him, but he doesn't turn to look.
…….
Sam finds him outside. Dean's sitting on the hood of the Impala, something he hasn't done since he was ten or eleven. A long time ago, before Sam could probably remember, Dad would drive them out to vacant lots at night to star gaze. John used to own a constellation chart. Dean distinctly remembers playing with it, turning the wheel to the specific day, staring at the sky.
He sat on John's lap, Sammy held in one of John's strong arms. His father would lean forward and point.
See that, Dean? That's Orion, the Hunter. He fell in love with a Goddess, but she was tricked into killing him. She put him up in the stars so he could be remembered forever.
Dean thinks the constellation chart got lost in one of the many moves from place to place, state to state. He has no particular memory of when the star gazing stopped, just that it did, another part of his childhood that faded away as everything else took over.
"Thought I'd find you out here." Sam says, leaning against the hood, turning his face up towards the sky.
"How's it going in there?"
"It's kinda weird. They know, like, everything. I told them I had to go to the bathroom. Teddy was starting to get emotional."
Dean looks at his brother. There is a flush to his cheeks, probably from the alcohol being past around. He looks healthy, happy. For Sam, this is something like closure. These are people that knew Dad in a way Sammy never did. This is a side to John that neither of them ever got to see.
He's tempted to ask if this is what normal people do, but it's too angry and bitter and these days Dean doesn't have the strength for that.
"They're nothing like I would've imagined." Sam says, shaking his head, amused. "They're asking about you, too, you know. Want to know why you aren't in there."
Dean shrugs. "You know me and people." He tries to joke, but it falls flat in the silence of the night.
"Dean…" Sam says, but his body language is already defeated. Dean wonders when arguments with Sam got this easy.
"Go on inside Sam." Dean says, "I'll be in soon."
Sam doesn't look like he believes the lie, but he pushes away from the Impala. Dean watches him go and wonders if Sam always looked that small.
He looks back up at the sky, while in the back of his head, John says, See that, Dean? That's Orion, the Hunter.