Interposed
K Hanna Korossy
The evening after Sam walked out on him, again, Dean went out and got totally bombed. Because Sam had walked out on him. Again.
Most of the next day he spent in bed, as miserable in body as in spirit. There was no one there to make him toast and tea—Sam's pansy-ass cure for hangovers that Dean somehow still missed—so it took longer than usual before he could drag himself to the bathroom to hydrate and shower and become at least mostly human again.
Humanity was overrated, anyway. Protecting stupid humans was why he'd killed Amy in the first place, and why Sam had walked out on him. Again.
Bobby's place was gone. The Impala was mothballed. Sam had taken off. Dean was officially and completely homeless. Adrift, he headed back to all he had left: Rufus's cabin and Bobby.
On the way, it finally occurred to him to call those who might've heard of the Winchesters' "death" and would want to know they were okay. Not Missouri, who would already know. Not Lisa or Cassie, who wouldn't remember or wouldn't care. Jess was gone, and Sarah Blake had moved on. There was Deputy Hudak—now Sheriff Hudak—in Hibbing, although for her protection he left a message no one but she would understand. No longer Pastor Jim or Caleb. Jeff was recovering from a skull fracture and had trouble even recalling who Dean was. Not Castiel. Dean tried to think of anyone else for a couple dozen miles before chucking the phone aside and driving straight through to Montana.
Bobby clearly felt bad for him, which didn't exactly make Dean feel any better, but Singer hid it under gruffness and insults, which oddly enough did. He helped the old man do some research on the Leviathan—Don Stark's spell had sent Bobby off on a new avenue, and the sodium in Borax meant other salt-based compounds bore looking at, too—and cured his lingering nausea with a bowl of Bobby's Texas chili. A night on a familiar sofa and a rough hug, because he needed at least one person to care in this wide cold world, and Dean hit the road again. At the airport, he traded up for a Nissan in the long-term parking lot and headed south.
He drifted. Drove aimlessly, hitting a couple of favorite diners that didn't seem as good as he remembered, switching out cars every other day. Found himself in Baby's neighborhood without conscious planning, and so he went to see her and just sat in her a while. It helped. A little.
He missed Sam, too, but he didn't track his brother down, didn't even call. Dean still had his pride. And he wasn't masochistic enough to face Sam's rejection again.
He was in a sports bar somewhere in the southwest when a special bulletin on the TV caught his eye. There was an ongoing investigation into the brutal murder of an Iowa sheriff and his medical examiner daughter. It didn't take a long to confirm it was the sheriff who'd helped him and Sam, and that they'd probably been killed by Leviathan. Dean crashed the latest stolen car that night, walking away with nothing more than some bruises and heartsickness. He wondered if Sam had heard.
He wondered if Sam was hallucinating him, not knowing the difference.
A woman recognized him in a small town outside Santa Fe. Before he could convince her he wasn't a sociopathic serial killer, police cars were on the way and he had to hightail it out of town in a puke-colored Datsun.
He thought sometimes about Amy, about what he could have done differently. Not promise Sam he wouldn't kill her, maybe. Not lie about it after? He wasn't sure that would have helped. He still considered it a righteous kill, not believing for a second she wouldn't kill again if her son needed it, no matter how good her intentions. But knowing his actions would drive Sam away, Dean wasn't sure he'd do it again.
He contemplated driving into the desert until the gas and water ran out, and had no good reason for deciding against it.
Finally, on the eighth day, Dean looked at himself in the mirror, took in the sunken eyes and unshaven jaw, and decided enough was enough. He shaved, showered, started to look for a job over breakfast, then realized he was pretty close to that weird flood-house out in the desert he and Sam had always planned to look into. He left that morning.
And, on a pit stop, heard on the radio about the freaky medium deaths out in Lily Dale, and turned north.
00000
For a few hours after he left Dean behind, Sam just walked. He was pretty sure he would crash any car he tried to drive just then.
Walking gave him the opportunity to sometimes stop and kick a tree, or yell at the sky, or curse the rain when it began to fall because of course it would start raining, too. By the time he reached the next town over, muddy and cold and spent, all he wanted was a warm shower and to sleep for half a day.
Then, determinedly, Sam got to work.
It didn't take long to find Amy's obituary, or the open police file on her. Jacob was alive—Sam wanted to be surprised that Dean had let him live but couldn't find it in himself to be—and a quick call to his family from "CPS" found him safely relocated. Wearily, Sam closed that door to his past and moved on.
Bobby called a few times, most of which Sam ignored. The one brief conversation they had, with Bobby urging him to come back to the cabin, Sam quickly ended. He had no desire to deal with Bobby right now, let alone risk crossing paths with Dean.
Dean didn't call.
The third day after, Sam read an article in the paper out of Ankeny about a sheriff and his daughter's murder. He almost called Dean then, spent a sleepless night instead staring at the other bed in the twin room he'd booked, trying not to feel like everything was falling apart around him.
Lucifer's non-stop commentary about the crime scene photos didn't help.
Sam threw himself into work, the only escape he knew. He tracked down a crimesolver tip and collected the reward to live off for the next few weeks. He finally made it to that house in the middle of the desert that had been flooded that he and Dean had always meant to go to, and found it a bust. He got "recognized" a few times as one of "those serial killer brothers," but between the public assurances that Sam Winchester was dead and the fact that this Sam was clearly traveling alone, he managed to talk anyone out of calling the police.
He reopened the scar in his palm with his knife, finding that far less painful than the fire and water and everything in between his hallucinations tortured him with.
He missed Dean, God help him.
But Dean had lied to him. Had killed Amy, yeah, and that hurt, but the part that really got to Sam was that Dean had flat-out told him to his face he wouldn't go after Amy, and then he had. Dean had lied to him before in an effort to "protect" him, but this was the first time he'd done so because he didn't trust Sam. Because he thought Sam was crazy, or, or too much of a freak himself not to recognize that Amy was good. Sometimes Lucifer would point out that Sam himself had failed to make sure she wouldn't kill once more if her son got sick again, and Sam knew that was his own guilt talking. But that didn't change the fact that Dean hadn't used that same argument, had just gone behind Sam's back and lied about it.
With Lucifer cooing in his ear, Sam wondered deep down sometimes if his brother's mistrust wasn't justified.
He did a simple salt-and-burn in Illinois. Dodged more of Bobby's calls. Told himself he was glad Dean didn't try to call. Nursed his anger over beers in bars. Tried not to think about how he usually slept off hangovers in the passenger seat while Dean drove, because there was no one now to take a turn at the wheel. Missed the Impala, and only the Impala. Because, damn it all, Dean had lied to him, and you couldn't have someone at your back whom you didn't trust, who didn't trust you. Enough was enough.
Lucifer thought so, too, which was more disturbing than Sam cared to admit.
Then, on the eighth day, he read online about the mediums dying off in Lily Dale, and headed east.
The End