ChapterTwo

"If I'd have called, would you have picked up?"

Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 2001

It had taken all of two days for John to pack up their meager belongings and move the hell out of there. It took him longer than Dean would have put money on, actually. He had been out, just needing the comfort of away, and had come home from an aimless and loud afternoon drive to a gruff "We'releaving." Everything of John's was already zipped up and in the truck; he'd even taken the liberty of packing Dean's stuff for him. At least he'd waited for Dean to get back.

That was that and they were out. Out of a town that had done little more than leave them, too. Dean had gotten really good at laying blame on things that happened to be in close proximity to the actual something or someone (read: Sam) he was actually angry at. It was for this reason he now found himself hating more than one small town across the country.

They pulled up their roots – figuratively speaking, of course, as this tree of Winchesters was fairly rootless – and got the hell out of Dodge with two sets of tires squealing and spinning a cloud of grit and gravel. They traveled northeast at speeds averaging eighty-five miles an hour, constantly keeping an eye out a mile ahead for those sneaky state troopers. Dean didn't say anything about it to his old man, but he had been more than a little nervous pressing that pedal to keep up with the truck; he hadn't had the time or motivation to get his license renewed and it was well past due. It was damned if you do, damned if you don't, so Dean just kept his mouth shut and his eyes alert, well aware of just how damned he was.

John was a man on a mission. What that particular mission was, well, that was still undecided. The trip had entailed just over twenty hours on the road and they didn't stop for more than gas, coffee, or some semblance of a restroom until they could see water. Those gas station breaks had been sullen and silent and Dean had had only enough time to grab some jerky and candy bars before John would summon him with a jerk of the head and they were on their way again. By the time they crossed the state line Dean had a passenger seat loaded with Styrofoam cups and candy wrappers and dark circles under his eyes. John just looked pissed.

He told Dean they'd headed for the coast because of rumblings of a siren or some other kind of water beastie; he'd been mumbling – but Dean hadn't heard for himself anything about that and figured it was really because New Hampshire was about as far away from California as they could get without needing a passport.

Their room in Portsmouth was small, smaller even than those times when money was really tight and Sam had been stretched out on the floor with an extra blanket or curled in the chair in the corner. It was gray and dreary, but not for lack of trying. A half dozen small porcelain fish brightly spotted the wall between the twin beds, and a plastic lobster stared at Dean from next to the television. He was overcome with an urge to hurl the thing into the street to get caught under a street sweeper. That, or tuck it away in his bag when his dad wasn't looking. Either way, the thing was just screaming, steal me!

John stood silently at the sliding glass door and gazed longingly at the harbor through the rain, as though three thousand miles and two days just wasn't enough. He looked ready to run or jump or fly. Took a slow pull from a bottle Dean didn't know he had picked up, but was only mildly surprised by the act. He hadn't seen his dad drink in awhile, long enough to make note of the occasion, but if something was going to bring it out again, it was this.

After a few days in town Dean definitely wasn't buying the hunting story he was being fed, because this was his dad, and the man he knew would never mix guns and knives with as much hard liquor as he had consumed since they stopped driving. Drinking, and not talking, and definitely not hunting. Not anything more than hangover, anyway, and he had already bagged a few of those, consecutively.

Even more than that, John wasn't sharing. Dean had been offered drinks since he was eighteen years old, but it had been made very clear this was to be a drinking binge of the one-man kind. He barely spoke to Dean, save to ask what kind of burger he wanted. There was no mention of Sam.

Dean didn't know what to do, didn't know what he should do, and so he just lagged behind in his dad's dusky shadow, collecting bottles, bagging trash, and washing clothes. The things Sam would do if he were there.

For the first time, he really appreciated just how much work Sam had done to keep their many various living quarters habitable. In his entire life, to the few people that had the pleasure or displeasure – it was really up to them – of knowing Dean he hadn't been known as the type who kept things clean. If it wasn't his hair, the trunk of his car, or the inside of a double barrel he didn't really give a crap about its appearance. His belongings were organized into their own special disorganized heaps, and that's the way he liked it. He knew where everything was.

Sam wasn't around anymore, wouldn't be now, and the place was really going to start to reek of more than dingy motel room if Dean didn't take up the role of maid, because Lord knew they couldn't let housekeeping in. So Dean straightened up the room, went to the office for fresh towels, picked up the greasy burger wrappers, soda and beer cans. He did it because of the smell, and because otherwise he would go crazy. He couldn't let himself slow down, would be damned if he let himself stop. Because then he would have to think, and thinking led to dwelling, and dwelling led to a world of hurt, frustration, and fury Dean wasn't prepared to accept and deal with. Not now, not ever. It was so much easier to just pretend things hadn't gone down the way they had. It was certainly working well for his dad.

They'd already spent six days on the Coast. John left Dean to his own devices just about every day. He was usually gone by the time Dean woke up, and didn't return until late into the night, if he returned at all. It wasn't lost on Dean the motel his dad had chosen was three blocks away from something that looked like some slightly richer version of their usual dives. The drinks would cost more, but he didn't think his dad really cared at this point.

That first night in town, Dean had gone around the corner to the liquor store and come back with a six-pack and fifth of Beam; companions for however long John was going to keep him there. There would be no bar or bed-hopping for Dean; God alone knew – and even that was pushing it – when John would decide that it was time to kill something, or time to split, and Dean knew that he had better damn well be ready for when that happened, lest he be left behind in this godforsaken place.

Portsmouth was not Dean's idea of a good time. He'd been able to buy the beer cold, and that was a plus, but the town was tiny and gray and, in that East Coast way, a bit too upscale for their typical hole-ups. They were drawing stares, obviously outsiders. The Impala was sleek and impressive, clunky in a way that made its presence known; John's truck stuck out like a sore thumb in the shiny sea of Jags and Beemers, streaked with dirt, front right tire up on the curb outside of the motel room.

Two more days rolled slowly by, and Dean still hadn't brought up the hunt they were supposedly on. He wanted to, if for nothing else to make his dad defensive and go on the move again, because he was getting more restless by the minute. Now, when he wasn't driving or cleaning he was pacing, wearing a track across the room that was visible to Dean and Dean alone. The only things his dad could see were the rain and a row of empty shot glasses.

Dean refused to believe John was really spending all of those lost hours at the bar, but it was easier for him to think that than the alternative; that his dad was out killing all sorts of lurking evil without him, dealing with things the only way Winchesters knew to deal with things.

Except for the whole leaving thing.

On the morning of the ninth day, John lumbered noisily into the room just before three. He'd probably hung around the bar until closing and stumbled around for a bit after that, not wanting to be so disgustingly drunk when he finally came back to the room. He failed miserably, and all those more favorable alternative thoughts of John out hunting without him were lost as Dean shot up in bed, knife in hand and ready to go.

"Jesus Christ, Dean."

"Dad? What timezit?"

"Late. I was out."

Dean recoiled as the smell of alcohol hit him. He winced and shifted to sit on the edge of his bed, legs swinging out. "Yeah, I see that."

"'Scuse me?"

"Nothin'."

"S'what I thought." John moved across the room and into the tiny bathroom, slamming the door behind him. The thin door rattled in its frame, and Dean leaned forward, rubbing his forehead, wishing he had the balls to do some leaving of his own.

Dean didn't know how long his dad was in the bathroom; he had pretty much passed out again, slumped to the side, and when the door opened he snapped awake a second time with a crick in his neck immediately demanding his attention. He was kneading the spot and staring at his feet, and so didn't see his dad cross to his side of the room. He jumped a near foot in the air when the large, heavy hand fell on his shoulder in a sloppy squeeze.

"It's you and me, kid."

Dean looked up into faraway eyes. John's demeanor had completely changed. He would remember coming home from the bar, would remember Dean being a smartass, but would not remember this moment. And maybe that was better. Maybe it made it all easier.

With a sigh, Dean gave the hand on his shoulder a lazy pat. "I know, Dad."

When he awoke for real the next morning, sometime around eleven, he assumed the two dirty twenties on the dresser meant they were staying at least one more night. Dad and the truck were gone. Driving was a good sign. Driving meant they would be leaving soon. Maybe only for another dark town with another dark bar, but Dean would take it, if it wasn't in New Hampshire.

Dean spent another day driving aimlessly around town, feeling utterly lost and mocked by every license plate boasting the state's motto: Live free, or die!

And he thought bitterly, this is Sam's kind of town.


Tuesday

In the lengthy silence following that utterly pathetic need to identify himself to his own flesh and blood brother Sam paced and gnawed his left thumbnail, wondering if this was really such a good idea, if maybe his SAT score had been swapped with that of someone who had maybe done a few less dumbass things in their life, and if he had somehow managed to render mute his perpetually loud and annoying older brother. It was pretty buzzy in his head. He only hoped Dean would say something before his nail was gone or his head exploded, whichever would happen first.

"Sam."

Sam swallowed. He felt like he was twelve again and in trouble for leaving the doors of the Impala unlocked. Even worse – and he had learned the hard way there wasn't much that was – was the fact that he couldn't place the emotion in Dean's voice. It could have been 'I've missed you like hell' or 'go fuck yourself'. Probably more of the latter, but at least it was something. "Yeah." Wow, was he ever lame.

"You dial the wrong number or something?"

There was a catch in Dean's voice – a lift, and what Sam interpreted as a kind of permission for him to make the situation lighter than they both knew it was because Dean didn't know what else to do with it. He knew Dean, or would like to think that he did, understood that he most likely wanted nothing more than to yell but at the same time didn't want to drive Sam to hang up, not after getting him on the phone after all this time. This was some kind of compromise in his eyes. He took the opening Dean gave him. "I'm kinda surprised you haven't changed it, actually."

"I'm kinda surprised you remembered it."

Ouch. Okay, so maybe Sam had misjudged that full extent of that little hitch. Jokes were not okay right now. Lesson learned. True, there were a dozen different arguments he could start with the door Dean's comment left open, but he took the high road instead. "How've you been?"

Dean snorted. "Oh, God."

Sam winced. Who the hell did he think he was trying to kid? Small talk? This was Dean.

"What do you want, Sam?"

He felt his face flush, angered that Dean would jump to such a conclusion and annoyed because he was right. It was hard to fight so many years of practice and habit, and Sam found himself taking the defensive. "What? Because that's the only reason I would call?" After two years. He continued pacing, wearing an invisible track in the carpet between the couch and coffee table.

"Sam. I'm not really in the mood for this right now. If you need something…"

"Okay. Okay, yes. I do. In a way."

"What, you need money? You're barkin' up the wrong tree. I'm not exactly Daddy Warbucks here."

"Okay, that's a really strange analogy, and one I'm not touching with a ten-foot pole, but no, I don't need money."

Silence resumed on the other end, and Sam was about ready to just be the chickenshit he was and disconnect the call. Pretend it was a prank, or that he really wasn't Sam. Is your refrigerator running? What the hell was he thinking, calling Dean out of the blue like this?

"The joke was that you're a little girl."

Sam wanted to be pissed, he really, really did. But he couldn't be, because he wanted to laugh and because he knew he had no right to be ticked at his brother for anything right then. His entire life, there was nothing Dean wouldn't do for him, and he knew what a slap in the face it must be to have this be the reason Sam reestablished contact after all that lost time.

He swallowed, just counting down the seconds until Dean hung up on him. "Dean, I'm trying to be serious."

Dean chuckled, sounding weary and much older than he should. Sam could see him as though he were standing right there: rubbing a hand over his face, wearing a crooked smile, looking more like Dad than he knew. "You've never been anything else, Sam. What do you need?"

Sam waited for his circuit to take to him to the hallway and peered around the corner, making sure Ben was still locked away in his room. The door was shut, and Sam could hear the faint plinking of classical music, his roommate's study soundtrack of choice. Verdi, Sam thought. He himself was book smart, sure, but Benjamin Evan Howard III? He was scary smart. Like, child prodigy smart. Like, shipped off to a special school when he was five smart. And a psychology major, which was just never a good thing.

"Sam?"

Satisfied Ben was deep into his studying and wouldn't be resurfacing for awhile, Sam retreated to the far end of the living room, through the sliding glass door and out onto the small balcony that was the reason they had decided on the place. "Yeah."

"You just gonna leave me hanging in suspense here, Sammy?"

The balcony was barely wide enough to hold one person, and it was near impossible for both he and Ben to stand outside at the same time, but at that word it seemed like all the room in the world. He felt about two inches tall. Sammy. It wasn't affectionate, the way it used to be. It was almost…belittling. Just, really, really what was he thinking? Best to just get it over with. "There's some stuff going on around here, Dean."

"Okaaay, Captain Cryptic. You wanna vague that up a little more for me?"

Sam bent over the railing, bracing his forearms, and gazed out over the dusky cityscape. "I tried to look into it myself, but I'm not getting anywhere."

"Tried to look into what…" And then it was like something clicked in Dean's brain, and there was a lengthy pause on the other end. Sam could hear the wheels turning, could hear Dean start and stop several times. "Like a hunt?" he asked finally.

Sam gave an exasperated sigh. "No, not like a hunt." He refused to give what he was doing that label. He was doing nothing more than his civic duty. As a citizen of the city, and of the United States. Right. Yeah. I don't hunt anymore. "It was just some weird shit. But the other night, somebody died."

"Died how?"

"I don't know."

"Well, what's going on?"

"I don't know."

"Sam, I don't understand what you…" Dean sighed. "You want Bobby's number or something?"

"Not exactly."

"Then WHAT exactly?" Dean's frustration was increasing by tangible levels. "You…you want me and Dad to…" Sam could almost feel the weight of the boulders that had been required to force even those few words out of Dean's mouth.

"No. No, I don't...I don't want Dad to come."

"Then, Sam, what…I don't – "

Sam closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of nose; never in a million years would he have guessed talking to his brother would be this hard. "I want your help, Dean. Not Bobby's, and not Dad's." NOT Dad's.

"Sam – "

"I don't want to see him. And he's not gonna wanna see me. I mean it, Dean."

"You're really serious about this?"

"Not wanting to see Dad?"

"You really want my help?"

"Yeah, I do."

This pause was actually so long, Sam found himself watching the second hand on his watch as it made its slow path around the watch face. Twice. Was so long Sam had time to wonder what the hell had happened since he left that caused Dean to think so damn much.

"Alright. Alright, let me run it by him, and I'll – "

"No, Dean. No. Don't tell him anything. Don't even tell him that you talked to me."

"I can't just disappear. I gotta tell him something, Sammy."

Sam was now the one whose frustration was growing exponentially; but, really, why should he expect anything more than Dean worrying more about what Dad would like versus what Sam would need? "Then make something up. You're good at that, aren't you?" he snapped.

Dean sucked in a breath, barked a bitter laugh. "So much for repressing things." It was the kind of comment most people would make under their breath, but Dean couldn't be bothered with formalities such as tact.

"Dean."

"Yeah."

"Don't tell Dad."

One last, long, overly dramatic, 'I just gotta let you know how pissed I am about this,' sigh. Sam thought, disappointed, he's just like Dad.

"I won't, Sam."


This was sure to be the hardest part. Dean wasn't the only one who was good at making stuff up; Sam himself was a decent enough liar when he needed to be. So, sometimes. A few times. Maybe twice, ever. The point being, he hadn't exactly been forthcoming with what the popular majority might refer to as "the truth" over the past couple of years. And the truth, lead foot and all, was about twenty-six hours out of Palo Alto. He could afford to put this off just a little longer, but that would only make it worse in the end, he was sure.

So Sam knocked on the door of Ben's bedroom and shifted his weight until the door was pulled open. "Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Sure." Ben rolled his desk chair around to the other side of his desk and hit the 'stop' button on his stereo. Classical music on CD. They just didn't make 'em like Ben anymore. He rolled back to center, pushed his glasses up onto his head, and leaned back, a hand propped up on the arm of his chair. "What's up?"

"Well…" Sam took a few steps into the room and absently scratched at the back of his head. "My, uh, my brother's coming to visit." More of a buffer might have been nice; he hadn't actually intended to just blurt it all out just like that.

Ben's face was a dictionary-perfect picture of confusion. "You…have a brother?"

And that was why. "Yeah, I really never – I'm sure I told you."

"Noooo." Ben leaned back in his desk chair, regarded Sam with a cock of the eyebrow that reminded him way too much of Dean. "You told me that you grew up in a foster home as an only child and never met your birth parents."

Oh. Right. "Yeah. That's not…entirely true."

"Which part?"

Sam opened his mouth. "Wh…" Shut it. Opened it again. "All of it."

"Sam," Ben breathed, setting himself in his chair and gearing up for some psycho-bullshit babble. He did that from time to time. "Sam, Sam, Sam." He knew what Ben was thinking: compulsive liar. Maybe delusional. Clearly heading for some kind of psychotic breakdown. Maybe he wasn't so far off.

"Yeah, I know. I'm a mess." Sam sank heavily onto the edge of Ben's perfectly made bed. "Can we just…forget the analysis on the pathetic state of my mental health until after he leaves?"

"When's he coming?"

Internal pump of the fist. Ben was letting it go. "Tomorrow. Late."

Ben's head bobbed. "Is something goin' on?"

"No." Sam gave his head the slightest shake. "No, just a visit."

"And he's arriving late at night."

"Yep." Ben was staring, and Sam realized he was waiting for more of an explanation. "He works nights, so he's used to being up. Said he'd rather drive during the night than the day and throw off his internal clock, you know?"

Ben nodded, very, very slowly. Cocked his shoulder and turned back to his open textbook. "Alright."

Despite feeling like he was going to puke, Sam was grinning when he left the room. He was a decent enough liar when he needed to be.


Wednesday

Dean wasn't sure just what it was this college thing was teaching Sammy, because the kid couldn't seem to grasp the concept of geography. Or of the time/space continuum.

"Are you coming? Or did you pit stop for a beer and a redhead?"

"She was blonde, actually." Dean rolled his eyes. "Give a guy a break, Sammy. I was working a job in Des Moines. That's not exactly down the street from you." He shot a glance at the side mirror. "Besides, it's not even noon yet." He had driven all night. Wasn't pissed in the least about it, either, because hadn't he wanted to just pack up and take off?

There was a slow pause. "Sam."

"SAM," Dean repeated, dramatic and drawn-out. It was like he wasn't even listening. Why put in the effort?

A sigh like a wounded puppy. "Look, I didn't call to fight. I was looking over the articles that I have, and I missed something well, something pretty obvious. I thought there wasn't a connection between the three victims, but it looks like they all…"

Two beeps sounded over the line. Call waiting. Leaving Sam to ramble on, Dean pulled the phone away from his ear and checked the ID. Are you KIDDING me with this?

"Sam, lemme get back to you." Not waiting for a response, not waiting to hear the end of Sam's thought, Dean pulled the phone away, swapped the calls, and brought it back to his ear, muttering to himself. "I am one popular SOB today – hey, Dad." It just figured, it really just did. He'd been trying to get a hold of the man for days, and THIS EXACT SECOND was when he decided to call back.

"Dean, I need you here."

The lack of greeting was to be expected, and even if it wasn't, Dean didn't have time to dwell on it. Shit. Shit shit shit. It was time to start ly…stretching the truth. "I'm not completely wrapped up around here, Dad – "

"It's a poltergeist, Dean. Salt and burn."

Oh, is that what it is? Hoping his dad hadn't spoken with Bobby in the last day or so, Dean took a chance. "Yeah, I know that's what we thought, but I ran into a…snag." Of the tall, gangly, annoyingly tidy variety.

John sighed. He recognized it as the, 'why are we even having this conversation,' sigh, and Dean winced. "We're tracking some serious shit here, Dean. This could be it. I need you to back me up."

"Yeah, I know that, Dad – "

"Then you're on your way."

It wasn't a question, and it certainly didn't sound like anything that was going to be put up for debate. "It's not a poltergeist, it's something else."

John let out a short breath, and Dean knew that his patience was wearing thin. "What kind of something else is it? Some kind of possession?"

Sure. "Haven't quite figured that out just yet."

"Dean, I really don't have time to – "

"I've got it covered, Dad. I'm just gonna need an extra day." Dean squinted, glanced in the rearview mirror, almost expecting to see his dad's truck behind him, ready to catch him in his lie. "Or so."

"Or so? Dean, what exactly is going on there?"

"Nothing I can't handle, Dad, I swear." And then before the conversation could continue any further, Dean turned one of John Winchester's most favorite lines around on him. "Look, I gotta go, but I'll meet up with you as soon as I can, okay?" He pulled the phone away and snapped it shut, letting out the long whoosh of air he had been holding in.

When the phone rang less than a minute later, Dean didn't even check the screen. "Dad, I'll call you back when I get –"

"You hung up on me, jerk."

He couldn't help himself. "Bitch."


There were few guarantees in life, but if there was one, it was Sam Winchester was doomed to live a life of guilt. Because Dean wasn't even in the state yet and it seemed he was ditching Dad's calls. On the one hand, Sam didn't know Dean had it in him, and on the other, hello, guilt trip, how've you been the last coupla years?

Right back in it. He was right. Back. In it.

Sam tossed his cell onto his bed and stared at it for a few minutes before feeling the need to pretend it didn't exist. Dean would be there by ten, come Hell or high water – Dean's words, not his, and heavy on the sarcasm, surely. Sam pulled at the hair snaking behind his right ear. He was being an imposition, being annoying little Sammy all over again, demanding Dean drop everything and come to his rescue. Kind of. He needed Dean to come and take this crazy shit away from him, to make it go away so he could put it out of his mind and focus on the things he should be focusing on. Things that didn't include phantom snake bites or murderous dormitory showers. So he could back out of it.

He snuck a glance at his phone, discarded and quiet on his plain blue bedspread, and felt like he was waiting for something. He wasn't sure exactly for what. Maybe for the store to call him into work so he would have something to do that wasn't staring at his cell phone, maybe for Dean to call and tell him to fuck off, maybe for Dean to call and say that he was downstairs and could Sam buzz him up? That was one hell of a sobering thought, and Sam's range of focus widened considerably. There was no way the place was ready for Dean to see it.

What did he care? He didn't care what Dean thought of the place, had told Ben they weren't going to do anything special with regards to cleaning because he didn't have to do anything special for Dean. Dean wouldn't care. He was the kind of guy who didn't change much, which meant that he wasn't going to give an honest shit about what Sam's place looked like; but he was going to make Sam think he did, just to drive Sam nuts. He could just HEAR it: this plate's a little streaky, Princess. What's the matter, can't invest in some decent dish soap? And it would never stop. There was sure to be an endless barrage of half-assed digs from the moment Dean stepped into town until he peeled out.

Standing in the middle of his bedroom, Sam resolved he wasn't going to let Dean get to him. Not here, not now.

After a whole two and a half minutes, he broke.


To be continued...