I should say that, in addition to catching the typos (read that as 'trying to'), I'm making some dialog adjustments as well. Just cause I'm anal like that. : ) And because a story is never really finished. - K
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The one thing that kept them going during their dark days was the job. The hunt, the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rush of – screw it. Dean had long since stopped trying to convince himself that he had a glamorous life. He sighed and flung the map he had been studying onto the cracked surface of the linoleum table. They were in another freakin' motel room, another claustrophobic, temporary place that marked their freakish lives. Sure, every once in a while the room would be interesting, like the sixties psychedelic room with the swirly comforters, or that sweet time they ended up in a place with a raised bed shaped like a champagne glass. Of course the fact that they had to share that bed was a bitch. Any sexual fantasies were quick, with a trip to the bathroom to ensure privacy. But it was just too good a room not to let the mind wander, so Dean's did, graciously, until the morning he opened blissful eyes to the mirrored ceiling and saw the reflection of his brother laying there.
The shock kept him from jerking off for a week.
Their current room wasn't as classy. It looked like a Holiday Inn, only not as posh, but at least it wasn't dingy. The walls were white, the bedspreads were white, the chairs were light and clean; to his mind it was practically Mary Poppins. Sam was sitting on one of the twin-sized beds, propped against the headboard, his long legs crossed at the ankles with heels close to the edge, and a thick volume in his hands. It didn't even have anything to do with the supernatural. Instead, Sam had been burying himself in various religions, looking for hidden clues, searching for that one miracle that would free Dean up to live his life as he should. Dean was pretty certain he wasn't going to find anything but confusion in those volumes, but he had to give Sam kudos for trying. No way was he going to venture into that realm. Once he was eyeing the scythe and hearing the hounds, yeah, maybe he could see having a throw-down or two with God, but for now the only way he could keep his head above water was to work the jobs and not think about the future, or lack thereof.
The problem was, jobs were plenty. Well, it shouldn't have been a problem, only there was suddenly more activity that he knew what to do with, and there was Sam laying on his bed with his thumb up his ass. "Sam. SAM."
"What?" Sam set down the volume calmly.
"You gonna come over here and look at this stuff or do I have to try that Andy shit and jam it into that thick skull of yours?"
The mention of Andy got a grimace, and Dean almost felt sorry for it, but it worked. Sam stood and padded in thick socks across the carpet. He joined Dean at the small table, flicking half-heartedly through the printouts and papers that Dean had strewn over the smooth surface. One glance at the map, a shrug, and he said, "I don't know, Dean. Take your pick."
Dean's eyes widened. "Take my pick?" He pursed his lips. "Okay. How about this one, possible banshee spotted in Wilmington. Or maybe the dead corpse that's come to life nine different times? Or how about this, I kick your ass until you clear that fog in your brain and help me out? I swear I'd get more help from Jo than you at this point!"
"Then fucking call Jo!"
Dean glared at him. Sam glared back. Dean waited, knowing his brother, knowing that the anger would fade into that annoying puppy-dog look, knowing that he would eventually say. . .
"Sorry, man."
Yep. There it was. Dean exhaled heavily. There were times when he wished Sam wouldn't be so predictable. Of course, the times he was unpredictable Dean wasn't really okay with either, so it was sort of a lose-lose situation.
Sam just sighed woefully and relented, pulling the papers back to him. "So, this corpse, the one that keeps coming back to life – you thinking maybe demonic possession?" His voice strung out in a tired drawl.
Dean was studying him, and saw Sam squirm. Good. "Maybe. Either that or the afterlife really sucks. Can't think of anything else, though I'm not sure why the demon would keep leaving and returning to the same body. I mean after a time – gross." Dean shuddered.
"It probably has a way to preserve the body."
"Yeah, but even that can only last for so long." Dean caught Sam eyeing his book wistfully. "Hey. You with me?"
"Hm? Sure."
"Sam, come on. Leave the religious theories to the Pope. We still have a job to do."
"I know that," Sam responded quickly. Dean just looked at him until Sam gave in and turned himself over. "So far, we've encountered demons that possess living people," he continued, sounding more focused. "Now with what was released from hell, there's no telling what we might be up against."
"And seeing as how dead people don't usually come to life that many times. . ." Dean started gathering the papers. "Great. The Smelly Cheese lady it is, then."
"Hey, Dean?"
"Yeah." Dean stood, papers in hand ready to shove them into the leather bag that served as a study-catch-all. The motion stopped when he realized Sam was looking at him with the utmost seriousness on his face.
"I really am sorry. I'm being an ass, and I don't want that to be – I mean – "Sam let the sentence hang with an apologetic shrug.
Be what? The way Dean would remember him? His last thought of his brother being that he was a dick? Dean could feel then tension around his eyes soften. "Yeah, I know," he said, and looked back at the stack of papers, refusing to meet his brother's eyes as he readied their things. He'd had enough emotional waffling and waving about in the past two days to last what was left of his lifetime. If hell was anything like this, he really was screwed. Probably why that Demon kept coming back. Too much Lifetime TV down there or something.
They checked out quickly, and hit the road.
Cruising the flat highways of the Midwest turned out to be more of an adventure than they had anticipated. What stared out as a warm, sunny trip quickly turned into a game of vehicular dodge-ball with popcorn thunderstorms that appeared and vanished with little warning. For once, Dean turned off his music and tried to tune in on a local station for the weather. He didn't mind driving in storms, but having grown up in the Midwest and working many a job in the Plains, he knew how fast severe storms could pop up this time of year. And they were popping up everywhere.
He pulled over to let a barrage of vehicles pass them on the way to a dark, massive cloud that hung low in the sky behind them, something Dean had been eyeing with uncertainty and managed to drive around. "Twister chasers." He grinned. "Gotta love it."
"Can't this thing get a decent station?" Sam fiddled with the knob on the dashboard.
"We can backtrack and ask them what's up. Man, I'd love to get my hands on some of that equipment. That is just sweet." Dean watched the fading vehicles in the review mirror. The cloud behind them looked ominous.
"Leave them alone, Dean."
Dean slapped Sam's hand away from the radio and tried the tuner himself. A voice crackled over the speakers, making Dean beam in response. "See? Just need to know how to handle her."
"You scare me sometimes."
The radio crackled out.
Sam's eyes never left the dial."Yeah. You were saying?"
Dean cursed and pulled back onto the road.
He could remember being in a few tornadoes when he was a kid. For Sam, the memories were probably spotty at best, coming from instances when they just happened to pass through the nation's heartland and swerve into the path of one. But this season was proving to be the most active storm season in over thirty years, and Dean had his theory, as did Sam, but neither one voiced it. They left one storm behind only to drive into another, and another, and by the time the sun was starting to set Sam was again tuning the radio, trying to get a bulletin on the warnings. What lay ahead of them looked pretty damn nasty, to say the least. Dean was determined to drive into it.
Sam finally caught a report on a local radio channel. Static spat over the words. "The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for eastern Lamar County until six pm." The mechanized voice continued to drone out the details as Sam keyed the GPS on his phone. No signal. He sighed and opened his road map, snapping it in the air to flatten it. He tracing a route with his forefinger. "Dean, that's like forty miles away."
Dean shrugged. "So it'll be gone by the time we get there."
"At the rate you're driving? We'll be there in less than twenty minutes."
"You're exaggerating, Sam."
"I never exaggerate where you're concerned."
Dean wondered just what that comment meant.
Sam tapped his arm a moment later and pointed to a spot on the map. "Let's just stop here and let this thing pass, huh?"
"Come on now, Sammy, haven't you ever wondered what was over the rainbow?" Dean flashed a smile.
Sam returned his gaze evenly. "I thought that's why we left Kansas, Dean."
Dean laughed. Score one for Sasquatch. "Yeah, you're right. Besides, I've seen enough evil old witches to last me a lifetime."
Sam nodded, then chuckled. "Hey, you remember the time we went into that hospital and the old lady you thought was a witch scared the crap out of you? Told you to fix her crucifix on the wall?"
That bitch. Dean's smile faded. "Dude, that wasn't funny."
"Oh, it so was! I swear I've never seen you move that fast, Dean, I thought you were gonna. . ."
"Shut up, Sam."
Sam cackled and folded his map.
Asshole.
The wind was picking up as Dean pulled into the parking lot of a small diner. It had a classic fifties look and feel to it. Chrome decor on the outside reflected the oncoming storm. The front window stretched the whole length of the building, with the counter fully visible from the street. Dean almost expected a cute girl in roller skates and a short skirt to come to the car for their order. He'd seen that once, even dated the girl for a few weeks. Then he found out about the football player boyfriend and decided that getting out of town would be a good option, seeing as how the player was in college football, not highschool, about the size of a tank, and turned out to be the cousin of a rather pissed-off hunter he was trying to avoid. "Hm. I don't know, Sam. Big windows."
"We could go over there." Sam jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward a brick building without really looking up at it.
"Nah. This may not be not the safest port in a storm, but man, I'm starving. I could really murder a donut or five." Dean put the car in park and leaned to one hip, fishing out his wallet to check his cash. "And coffee. Gotta have coffee. I mean, no offense man, but your conversations lately haven't exactly been stimulating. I need something to keep me conscious."
"Coffee and donuts? Would you like a badge, too?"
"Hey, the cops might get right up my ass, but coffee and donuts? That's a winner. Speaking of which," Dean's eyes flashed to the counter, "don't see any five ohs or smokies in there, do you?"
Sam squinted through the glass. "No, looks good. Don't think much of the waitress though. And I was hoping for some light entertainment with my meal." He gave a woeful sigh.
Dean looked at him in some confusion while flipping through his bills. "What light entertainment?"
"You trying to hit up some girl."
"What. . ." Dean caught sight of a burly man pouring coffee into a mug. "Oh. Right." He opened his door, pocketing his wallet as he climbed out. A sudden gust of wind caught him unawares, and he grunted and braced the door before closing it heavily. "Looks like we might be in for one hell of a storm, Sammy-boy."
"Oh! You mean the tornado that's baring down on us? You noticed that?" He shook his head. "And here we are, walking into a glass building."
"Can the sarcasm, would ya? Let's get some food. If we need to, we'll head over there, like you said." He pointed to the sturdy brick building across the street with a half faded sign that read 'Smith's Hardware'.
"Oh, God, I didn't read the sign," Sam moaned. "Because if I can't be in a glass house during a tornado, I really want to be in a place full of nails and saws."
"Jesus Christ, Sam, just come on! I'll outrun the damn thing in the Impala if I have to." Dean tugged him by his t-shirt sleeve toward the diner.
Dean forced the door open against the wind, and they practically blew inside. He rolled his shoulders and flashed a smile at the people who glanced up at them, then returned to their plates of food. The bell on the door stilled, it's chimes floating into oblivion. The man refilling coffee mugs looked up. "You gents trying to outrun the storm? 'Cause it's heading this way."
Dean waved away Sam's look of concern. "I guess we need a to-go then, huh?" He slid onto a stool and took a plastic-covered menu, pushing another into Sam's hand and sending him a look he hoped was designed to calm him down.
"At this point you need a 'stay-here'. What'll it be?" The man crossed behind the counter and looked at them expectantly.
Dean was in menu heaven, or almost. "Oh man, yeah, let's see – no donuts. Crap. Oh, here we go. . .turkey sandwich, fries, apple cobbler – man there are days when I love road trips. Sam?"
"Uh, I'll have the same." He darted a nervous glance at the window behind him.
"My brother, the non-conformist." Dean teased, and set the menu back against the salt and pepper shakers. He threaded his fingers on the counter top, looking around at the people who had started enjoying a casual meal, and had since decided it would be prudent to pick up the pace a bit.
"Right. Gimme ten," the man said. And to Dean's surprise, he set down the coffee pot and headed back to the grill. A moment later, his face appeared in the cut out window.
Dean sent a questioning look to Sam, who seemed just as surprised. Dean leaned on his elbows, raising from his seat to look into the window. "This a one man operation?" he called over the pop and crackle of fries going into the oil.
"It is right now," the man said loudly, "my help decided today would be a great day to have a baby."
"Wow, that – that sucks, dude. I mean, it's great! But," Dean swirled his finger around to encompass the diner, "you know."
"You've no idea. She's my wife."
Sam's brow's raised. "Your wife?"
"Yep."
Sam leaned forward like Dean, and looked like he could reach out and through the window. "Then pardon me asking but – what the hell are you still doing here?"
"Got no one else. I tell you though, this storm just might knock out business."
Dean eyed the people behind him. Some were rising to try and outrun the storm, looking around for their check. He suddenly had a bad feeling of putting a load on this man. Without giving it much thought he slid off the stool and walked through the swinging doors, into the cook's station.
The man jumped, and waved a thick, but blunt, knife at him. "Hey, wait, you can't. . ."
"What's your name?" Dean took the thick sandwich bread from his other hand while eyeing the fries.
The man looked at him, incredulous. "Bruce Baldrige."
He was a slightly older man, probably in his late forties, which made Dean doubt that this coming baby was his first. Seeing the calm with which he relayed the news, he figured the man had at least two kids already. "As in Baldrige's Grill?"
"That's right. My wife and I own the place."
"What about your other kids?"
He looked at Dean for a moment, then relaxed and cracked a smile. "You're too observant for your own good, that's what. I have one other. In college."
That explained his reluctance to close, even for a day. Dean held out his hand to shake. "I'm Dean." He gestured to the window with the bread. "You're about to have some customers skip out on you out there. My brother, he's real picky about his sandwiches, so why don't you let me handle this and you get those people out before they meet The Wizard in person. Huh?" A distant roll of thunder punctuated his remark. Despite this, the owner looked understandably uncertain. "Look," Dean added, "I promise I'm not going to sneak out the back door, and you'll see me if I go through the front."
Bruce glanced at the bandage that was wrapped around Dean's hand and wrist. "You sure?"
"Absolutely."
Bruce eyed him for a moment more, then decided the risk of losing two sandwiches versus eight checks was worth it. He hurried to the till as Dean pushed up his sleeves and caught Sam's eye through the cut out window. "Yo, Sam! You – look – just – put your eyes back in your head, okay? Mayo?"
Sam was watching him with a disconcerting expression of surprise and delight. He grinned at Dean, and nodded, then made a scene of sitting back to be waited on by his brother.
Dean made the sandwiches the way they liked them; Sam's with a little mayo and more mustard, heavy on the lettuce and turkey, no tomato. Dean piled everything possible on his. The fries came out of the oil, and he set the rack to the side to let them cool. Went to the fountain for drinks, and popped out real quick to set two mugs and the coffee pot in front of his brother, who was still grinning. "You missed your calling," he said.
"Bitch," Dean replied, but he winked. And he returned moments later with two white plates loaded with thick sandwiches and fries. He set the plates down on the counter and sat beside Sam, pushing a fry into his own mouth as he swivelled to look at the darkening sky. "How much time you reckon we have?" he called out to Bruce.
Bruce spared a quick glance to the front window, then continued ringing checks. "Not as much as you'd like," he replied calmly. "You boys eat up. I got a cooler in the back we can get into if it comes down to it."
"Nice," Sam said around a mouthful of turkey. "I always wanted to be in a frozen coffin during a storm." He chewed and swallowed. "Dean, this is really good."
"Of course it is. I made it. Your last meal has to be a good one." He raised his own sandwich to his mouth right as the power blinked out. "Aw, crap." They turned as one to look at the suddenly menacing sky, gunmetal grey tinged with green. To the casual onlooker, it heralded the approach of nasty weather. To Sam and Dean, it was the lingering color on a corpse. Visible death and decay.
Dean suddenly had a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he set his sandwich carefully on his plate. Sam did the same.
The few patrons that remained in the diner either stood quickly and left, if their checks were cleared out, or rushed to the register to pay. Sam was on his feet and running out the front door, followed by a spattering of people that were suddenly very eager to clear out the diner. Dean joined Bruce at the register as he ushered the rest of the patrons out, ticket paid or not. Bruce was yelling something about the post office, and Dean saw people heading in a stream down the street.
Sam was standing in front of the Impala. He saw the wind whip at Sam's hair, throwing it about his eyes and face before pushing it back in a powerful wave. Then everything stilled. Dean saw Sam's eyes fix on a point in the sky right as Bruce nudged him and said, "This doesn't feel good. Get him in here and get in the back. Now."
Dean started for the door. "How far away was that storm?"
"Doesn't matter, it's here now. Get him back inside!" Bruce reached forward and planted his big hand against Dean's back, giving him a shove.
Dean ran out of the diner and gave a piercing whistle that Sam couldn't help but hear. Sam's long legs pushed him back towards the door, and he barreled inside, his face flushed with wonder. "I think I saw it, Dean! The funnel!"
"That's great, Sam. Get in the back." Dean pulled Sam in front of him and quickly steered him to the rear of the restaurant.
Bruce was waiting in front of what looked like an upright cadaver storage unit. Dean balked, but didn't have time to utter a word of regret before he and Sam were shoved in.
"Do not open this door," Bruce commanded as the air around them grew thick. "I'll be in the walk-in freezer." And the door slammed on Dean's open mouth.
There was a slight hiss of suction, then complete silence.
Dean swallowed hard and closed his eyes, feeling Sam right behind him. He did not like tight spaces. "Well." His voice sounded flat. "This is probably the most uncomfortable situation I've ever been in." He could feel Sam's breath on his neck, feel Sam's chest muscles shifting against his back, and had to admit that this was closer than he ever wanted to be to his brother. But he relaxed back against him, trying to remain stoic about the whole thing, because dude – really. It was embarrassing. He tried to let his mind wander, but that proved disastrous. "Shit! My car!"
He physically felt Sam tense, and really, that was just – wrong. "Nothing you can do about it."
"My car's out there!"
"Dude, what are you gonna do? Put it in here with us?"
Dean swore he could hear howling. "Come on, Sam! You've seen those shows on the Weather Channel! You know what tornadoes do to cars!"
"Which is why you decided to drive into the path of one, right?"
"Don't gimme that! Oh, man – my car."
"Dean! Enough, huh? Relax." Dean felt Sam's hands on his shoulders, felt the subtle squeeze that was meant to be reassuring.
Dean stiffened, rather than relaxed. "Could you not step on my heel?"
"Could you move your hand?"
Dean swallowed again and made certain his hands remained in front of him.
"You didn't put onions on your sandwich, did you, Dean?"
One elbow jab directly behind him was all it took.
It felt like hours, but a later check of his watch showed that they had been in the I-wanna-be-a-casket-when-I-grow-up sized space for only ten minutes. Bruce opened the door with a relieved smile, letting the brothers out.
Dean stumbled out and inhaled deeply. "Air. Oh, God, I love air." He caught his pale reflection on the surface of a boiler, and gave Sam a quick glance. He appeared unruffled, damn him, except for his wind-tossed hair. "You okay?"
"Yeah, you?" He saw Sam take in his haggard expression, and quickly schooled it.
Together they rushed to the front.
The diner wasn't damaged. Minor debris had blown into the street. The sky was a light grey, almost white against a darkening horizon, and people were starting to come out from hiding, taking stock of things, talking together. The small town had dodged a bullet.
"I think it stayed aloft," Sam said as he studied the clouds, then walked around the side of the diner.
Dean's attention was elsewhere. He had made a beeline for his car, muttering a profound, "Oh, thank god" as he checked the windows. The Impala was flaked with leaves and small twigs that stuck to the remaining moisture. He picked the leaves from the windshield, running his fingers over the hood and along the side.
"Everything okay?" Bruce asked, stepping back past him to check the roof of his diner.
"Think so." Dean stopped his inspection long enough to survey the roof with Bruce. "Looking good on your end?"
"Think so. Nothing missing up there."
Sam emerged from around the opposite corner. "The back of the diner looks good."
"Got lucky." Bruce nodded. "Got damned lucky. And don't think I won't remember how you helped out today. Anytime you're out this way, meals are on the house."
Dean gave a small smile that was interrupted by the rumbling of his stomach. "Don't suppose our sandwiches are still in there?" he asked, rubbing his belly.
Sam just shook his head at him with a smile on his face, and walked back into the diner.
Dean looked at the sky, then followed.
Bruce had earned himself a hefty tip that evening, with a demand that he shut down the restaurant to see his wife. Whether he took the advice, the boys never knew.
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They found a small motel just outside Perry, Oklahoma, and settled in for the night. Lightning flashed in the skies around them, heating the already charged air. Dean watched it idly from the window for several minutes before closing the curtain and rejoining his brother at the table, where they had unfolded their travel map. Sam's laptop was logged in to the wireless network provided by the motel, and the television was on the local news. "Still looks rough out there," Dean said as he sat down carefully so as not to jar the table. "I swear these things are following us. Guess we should keep our ears open tonight. Huh. That'll be a first, hunting tornadoes instead of ghosts." He bent over to unlace his boots.
"You may be closer to the truth than you think." Sam turned the paper he'd been writing on to face Dean. Dean slid off a boot, wiggled the stiffness from his toes, and pulled the sheet to him. "I've pinpointed the areas that have been affected by these storms," Sam continued, and tapped a region on the map that had been enclosed in pencil. "We're looking at an area about one hundred and fifty miles wide and about eighty miles deep. This is where most of the activity is situated."
Dean just shrugged at him and tugged off his other boot. "It's tornado alley, Sam."
"I know. But take a look at this." He turned his laptop to face Dean. "Seventeen major storms reported in Nebraska alone."
"What, you gonna ditch me and be a weatherman, now?" Dean pulled the laptop closer to him, then studied the sheet in his hand. "So it's a big system. Freak weather happens, especially out here."
"Seventeen storms, Dean."
"Massive weather front, Sam."
"Dean. . ."
"What, you think these storms are coming from sort of demonic activity or something?" His smile was playful, and he tossed the sheet back to the table.
"Well, we did open the gates to hell."
"You're reaching, tiger." Dean knew his dismissive tone irritated Sam. He stood and carried his boots to the foot of his bed, set them down, then reclined on the mattress, clasping his hands over his chest and crossing his ankles. He was done. "Sometimes a storm's just a storm. Wait it out. If this energy keeps up, we'll check it out. Otherwise, I say let the Weather Channel have it's day."
"Dean. . ."
"Demonic activity is usually characterized by electrical storms, not wind funnels."
"There is no reason not to assume that loads of negative energy wouldn't muck with the weather patterns." Sam stood and walked to his own bed. The old mattress creaked as he sat. "What's with you? Normally you'd be all over this."
"Nothing! I just haven't seen anything that proves this isn't Mother Nature's version of PMS."
"I know you've been thinking it."
Damn his brother and his freaky insight. It was true. There was something different about these storms, something Dean couldn't put his finger on. He was no meteorologist, but he knew right when he felt it, and this wasn't it. Of course, it could be his nerves talking. "Okay. I've thought about it. And I've decided to wait and see what happens tomorrow." He cut Sam a stern look that clearly said the conversation was over. The thunder rumbled deeply, shaking the walls. Dean could feel it in his chest, and he could tell by looking at Sam that he felt it too.
"Fine," Sam groused. "I'll just shut everything down, then. Maybe the answer will magically appear to us in our sleep."
"Suits me." Dean snuggled back and closed his eyes. He heard the catch of the laptop as it snapped shut, heard the frustration in shoelaces being jerked from stiff shoes. He cracked open an eye. His little brother looked distressed, and that was never a good thing. Usually, he would wave Dean down in annoyance when he didn't get his way, or was fed up, but this looked like the beginnings of actual anger. "What's this really about?" he asked.
"What?"
Dean knew his brother. He knew how to put two and two together, and he didn't like the way the numbers were adding up. "Don't give me that! You were the one that wanted to go after that demon in Ohio. You've had your head buried in ritual books for two weeks. You picked that living corpse for our next gig, I'm willing to bet because you think it's demon-possessed, and now you're interested in electrical storms that may or may not have supernatural significance." Dean sat up and swung his legs over the bed. Two and two suddenly added up to a very nasty figure. "Sam, don't do this," he warned.
"Do what?"
All innocent. Right. "Don't go hunting this thing out! I'm telling you, leave it alone."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Dean rose. "I'm talking about the sudden hard-on you have for demonic activity, Sam! I'm talking about that damn crossroads demon! You're looking for it, aren't you?"
Sam quickly brushed his hair from his forehead, more from annoyance than need. "What do you expect me to do, Dean? You won't do anything to help yourself. You really think I'm just going to let this thing happen to you?"
"Yes! That's exactly what I expect you to do!"
"That's bullshit!"
Dean couldn't understand his brother's venom. Well, he could, but the anger that Sam suddenly let loose, that dark gleam in his brother's eyes, both made him uncomfortable. "Besides, you won't find it this way, Sam. You have to summon it at a crossroads, you know that."
"I tried," Sam spat. "It won't come to me."
He – what? Dean gave his head a shake, like he hadn't heard correctly. "Wait, what do you mean you tried?"
"You heard me." Sam's voice was low, and the anger was quickly being replaced with grief.
That terrified Dean. He could have lost Sam a second time if that bitch had decided to show her face. "God, no, Sam, please. Don't do this." He crossed the room quickly and took his brother by the arms. Made him look into his eyes. "Just leave this alone, okay? You can't do anything, anyway. I," he paused uncomfortably, "I promised."
Sam's head jerked slightly in surprise. "You – promised? Dean, what did you promise?"
Dean had been dreading this. He knew it would come up sooner or later, and he had hoped it would be much, much later. He hadn't relied on Sam's tenacity, though, which was a boneheaded move on his part. Sam's tenacity had saved him once before, when he found a faith healer that repaired Dean's damaged heart and left it like new. Never mind the circumstance that made it possible; it was done. Dean was alive due to Sam's sleepless nights on the internet and cell phone, desperate to save his older brother's life. There was no reason to expect any less than that same effort now, only. . . "I can't negotiate. I have to do this."
"Why?"
Dean gripped Sam's arms tightly, kneading the tense muscle. He felt his mouth quiver under the sudden onslaught of emotion, recalling the pure fear and anguish in his soul when Sam had died. "Because if I back out of this deal – you'll drop dead. You'll die, Sam. That's kinda what I was trying to avoid in the first place, you know?"
Sam just looked at him, and it was hard to tell if his expression held shock or disgust. He gently pushed himself away, and Dean let him go, reluctantly. "Sam, listen to me. I had no choice. I had no choice! I couldn't just – I couldn't, you know?" Again, Dean felt the weight on his shoulders, and dammit, it wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to keep this close to his chest, locked in his heart, Sam wasn't even supposed to know about the deal in the first damn place. That he found out was a fluke, and it was ruining what could have been a great final year for him.
Final year. Oh – God!
"So if I try to save you?" Sam asked in a low, broken voice.
"I don't know, Sam. I don't know what that would do, but it isn't worth the risk, is it?"
"It is to me."
Dean gritted his teeth and lowered his head. He started to chuckle, which made Sam frown at him in alarm. The chuckled turned into laughter, and Dean walked to his bed and fell on it, rolling to his back, letting the mirth take hold. "Man," he gasped out, "this is the most fucked up catch-22 in the history of ever, you know that?"
Sam managed a smile. "Yeah, well, trust you to make a crappy situation even crappier."
"Hey! It's a Winchester gift. Don't knock it."
"Hmm." Sam nodded and scratched the back of his head subconsciously. Dean felt a familiar warm pull in his chest at seeing such a Sam-maneuver. In that time. . . after. . .he had cataloged all of his brother's habitual movements, committed them to memory, and to see them play out before him brought endless moments of nostalgic, tormented joy. "But we're still checking out these electrical storms."
Dean gave in with a sigh. "Whatever you say, Kemosabe." He resumed his earlier position, hands threaded across his chest, his ankles crossed. He fell into a doze, but wasn't so out of it that he didn't notice Sam turning off the lights some time later, and pulling a blanket over him. He could feel Sam hover, then heard the springs creak as he climbed into his own bed.
Dean allowed himself to linger on the warmth of that feeling.
