Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.
"She's gorgeous."
Sam rolls his eyes, Dean hoisted up on his shoulder as he drags him hastily out of the hospital. They're hobbling out of the parking lot with the older man practically clinging onto Sam's back, and through a series of winces, Sam places Dean back onto the pavement. He smiles faintly as he watches Dean's fingertips graze the smoothness of the Impala, his lips pursing into a low whistle.
"She's yours." Sam tells him, playing with the keys in his hands, "but I think it would be better if I drive." He hops into the front seat, grinning as he watches Dean stare in fascination at the car's interior.
"This is a baby, this one." He leans back into the seat and lets out a relaxed sigh.
Sam starts the car and watches as Dean plays with the buttons of the radio. He presses the on button, AC/DC immediately bursting out in noisy screams. Dean beams.
"Good music too." He bobs his head along to the beat while Sam scrunches his face up at the loudness of the tunes. He hurriedly turns it down.
"Dean, you need to relax. And AC/DC is not very relaxing."
"I don't want to listen to any classical, dude." Dean says coolly, frowning slightly at his brother.
"It'd be a miracle if you had any classical music in here, Dean." Sam says, his grip on the steering wheel tightening considerably.
"Where are we going anyway?" Dean says, interrupting the dead air.
"A friend of ours," Sam tells him, "his name's Bobby."
The younger man steals a shifty glance at his brother, who nods along in acknowledgment, his fingers drumming along to the tinny rhythms coming from the radio. Bobby's house was a hunter's house even from the outside. From the way demon-repellent charms are scattered surreptitiously across the lawn and the devil's trap drawn in chalk on the roof of the patio, it acts almost like an anti-magnet to regular civilians. And at the moment, that's all that Dean is.
"Dean, I think we need to talk about something." Sam starts uneasily. This is like giving teenagers The Talk or breaking the news about Santa to seven-year-olds. He bites his lip, "There's something about yourself that you don't know."
Dean barks out laughter, "Sammy, there's a lot of thing that I don't know about myself."
Sam frowns as he hears the nickname slip easily off of Dean's tongue. He had been hoping that with the amnesia, he could attempt to teach Dean to steer clear of that name entirely. No such plan was ever created.
"Well, this is the most important thing."
"Did I use to be a woman? Am I wanted in all countries?"
Sam cringes, "No guessing, please," he grits out, feeling a small bead of sweat fall down his forehead, "there's a lot you don't remember about the world."
He doesn't know how to continue. Actually, he has nothing to continue on. He doesn't know how to start this conversation. He knows that Dean is a very visual learner and likes to see evidence with his eyes, but searching out a spirit or a demon in crossroads would be the worst way and most dangerous to teach Dean about the supernatural. It had been so simple in the past, easing Dean and Sam into their sense of the world by growing up in it. But this was too late for the beginning of an innocent four-year-old's life.
Sam can't lead Dean into Bobby's house and let him draw his own horrific conclusions from the various supernatural objects lying around the place. And not to mention that Bobby would probably give them both doses of holy water for precaution. The devil's traps on the ceilings, the paranormal books, the arrays of guns probably on display on his dining room table for precaution…
It's going to be a long trip to South Dakota, which definitely gives Sam time to expound on the whole situation, but it's still going to be difficult. Sam worries his lower lip, his eyes focused fixedly on the deserted road in front of him. Sharply, he jerks the steering wheel to the side and stops the car at the side of the road. Dean raises his eyebrows at his brother.
"What's going on?"
"Out of the car." Sam orders shortly and makes his way to the car's trunk. Dean joins him a second later. He hopes that this is the easiest way to teach Dean. There's no risk, no long explanations, just one glance that would easily fill up three hours of talking. The younger man unlocks the trunk and opens it swiftly. His eyes are fixed on Dean as he watches his brother graze over the back of the car's contents in awe. In the back, hundreds of guns, knives, and other sorts of lethal weaponry are strapped to the felt.
"What… what is all this?"
"It's protection, Dean." Sam watches as Dean picks up a rock salt gun and runs his fingers across the handle.
"From what? Do we have gangsters running after our asses or something?"
Sam cringes, "Thankfully, no."
"What the hell are we?" Dean asks, his eyes narrowed quizzically, "I'm not an outlaw, am I?"
Sam puts a hand soothingly on his brother's shoulder and squeezes, "No, Dean. We're heroes. We're hunters."
"Of… uh, deer?"
"Of spirits… of ghosts, of demons." Sam delicately takes the gun out of Dean's hands and straps it back down into its holder.
"Demons?" Dean repeats incredulously, his eyes as wide as tires, "what the hell, dude? This is ridiculous!"
Sam bites down on his tongue. Clearly, Dean wants evidence. And Sam doesn't know how easy giving it to him is going to be. Dean is staring at Sam with a stony gaze, his hands hard on his hips.
"C'mon, this is just stupid! Prove it!"
Sam rubs at his forehead. Performing an exorcism to summon a spirit was not something that Sam wants to engage in. But a truckload of guns and ammo was clearly not enough to persuade Dean about the supernatural world. He considers calling Bobby for advice.
"All right, fine." Sam says, shrugging, "once we get to South Dakota, Bobby will show you."
Dean looks as though he wants to pressure Sam for more, because no way is he getting into a car with this freak now, but instead he grits his teeth and stomps back into the front seat, trying to conceal his obvious limp.
"Dean, I know this is overwhelming–" Sam begins.
"Oh no! This isn't overwhelming! This is damn insane, man, and I'm not buying it! Just because I have some memory issues doesn't mean I'll believe anything!"
"Dean–"
"No! I'm not an idiot!" Huffing, Dean crosses his arms and turns up the radio to maximum volume to tune out any of Sam's future arguments.
Sam sighs, revving up the car again. They drive in silence except for the blaring of the music, but to Sam, the air is still dead. He keeps on stealing glances to his brother, who is staring pointedly out the window.
They arrive at Bobby's house in the evening just during sundown. Still quiet, Dean exits the car, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and follows Sam dutifully up the front steps. Sam knocks with white knuckles.
Bobby answers the door and smiles when his eyes fall upon the Winchesters.
"C'mon in, boys. Hey Sam." Sam steps into the dark house, looking over his shoulder concernedly as he watches Dean follow him with an aura of reluctance.
"You must be Bobby."
Bobby heaves a deep sigh as he stares Dean up and down, a hand scratching at the back of his hair worriedly.
"That I am," he answers grimly, extending his hand, "hey, Dean. C'mon into the kitchen. You two must be thirsty."
Sam watches as Dean stares at the walls of Bobby's home. There are guns similar to the ones in the Impala's truck adorning the walls, and Sam can tell from the way Dean is glaring that he doesn't like what he's seeing.
Bobby hands them both two beers, clearly spiked with doses of holy water. Sam swallows it deftly, watching as Dean sniffs untrustingly at the bottle.
"So… Sam, does… uh, have things been explained yet?" Bobby asks as discreetly as he can manage as he sips at his own bottle of beer. Sam frowns.
"I tried. Didn't believe me."
"Naturally." Bobby turns to Dean, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"What are you doing?" Sam hisses to the older man.
"There's only one way for Dean to learn, Sam," Bobby turns to Dean, "Come with me, would you, son? Something to show you."
"Uh. All right." Dean sends a shady glance over his shoulder to Sam, who follows the pair like a neglected puppy.
"Are you bringing him along to a hunt? Are you crazy, Bobby?" Sam whispers out of Dean's earshot, acting a bit like the enraged angel on Bobby's shoulder. Bobby shushes him.
"There's a demon in the basement, all right? Dean can watch as we send it back to hell."
Sam relaxes slightly. Dean eyes are still zipping around at the abnormal decorations like a fly's buzzing around his head irritably. Sam wants to console his brother and try to apologize for springing the supernatural on him so tactlessly, but he holds back. They step warily down the creaky stairs that lead to Bobby's basement.
Sam wants to break down on the steps and cry. He has to treat Dean like a person they meet on a hunt on accident and hastily have to explain everything about the paranormal. He'd always had someone to talk to about all things supernatural, someone that was always at his side, someone that had been through everything that Sam had, and that someone was Dean. But not anymore.
By now Sam can hear the growls of someone desperately trying to rid themselves of strong bonds. As they reach the landing, Dean gasps as his eyes fall upon a man strapped to a chair within a neatly drawn devil's trap. Dean stares at it all, the screaming man, the unorthodox drawings on the floor and ceiling, the bucket of holy water near the chair.
Bobby crosses his arms and heaves a deep sigh at the demon.
"Who is this?" he growls, "another one of you hunters?"
"You lost the right to ask me questions when you punched me in the stomach," Bobby says gruffly, and grabs the bucket of holy water. He steadies it in his hand, his grip poised to throw.
"This is for your benefit, Dean." Bobby whispers, right before he throws the water onto the man.
His yell of pain is piercing. Sam can feel Dean cowering subconsciously into him as smoke rises from the man's skin like steam rising from a pothole.
"Wha – what the hell is going on?" Dean attempts to whisper to Sam over the man's shrieks.
"He's a demon." Sam explains softly, and lightly grabs Dean's shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.
"What is that, like, boiling water?"
"No. It's holy water."
"But – but it smoked when it touched him!" Dean points out indignantly, recoiling as Bobby flicks more water on the man.
"Watch, Dean." Sam tells him gently, and leans forward to grab a handful of water from the bucket. It sloshes around his palm calmly.
"I – can I?" Dean inquires quietly, his fingers hesitantly hovering over the water. Sam nods.
He sticks in his thumb, his eyes scrunched to expect the worst. But the water remains peaceful underneath his touch. More than stunned, Dean watches as Sam dumps the holy water still in his hand on the bound man, the prisoner screaming in agony once again.
"Any last words before we send you back to hell?" Bobby asks gruffly.
"Hell?" Dean repeats incredulously.
"It's a tough world, kid." Bobby tells him with an unmovable scowl.
"This is… this is unbelievable."
Sam lets the hand that's on Dean's shoulder wander to his neck to massage gently. "It's… it's just the evil that's in every world. You used to fight these, Dean."
"How… how do you fight something like this?" Dean asks with wide eyes as the demon's eyes flash black.
Bobby starts to rattle off the Latin speech to send the demon back to hell. Sam can vaguely feel the pulse at Dean's neck from his massaging, and is scared to feel how increased the beats are.
"Relax." He whispers consolingly. It only takes a few more seconds of chanting before the demon shoots up from the man's mouth, yells being the only sound accompanying the procedure. Finally, the now innocent man slumps motionlessly in the chair, stuck in unconsciousness except for the light groaning noise slipping from his lips.
"That was… that was friggin' weird. Weird, but… god, that was awesome." Dean mumbles, shaking his head.
"What?" Sam asks perplexedly.
"C'mon! Every single little boy in the world thinks there's something evil in the world, like vampires and werewolves and monsters. And every one of those little boys takes a bat and swings it around underneath his bed to kill that monster. And I get to be that boy, but grown-up!" Dean turns away from Sam's grasp, facing Bobby, "Can I see more?"
"Uh… sure." Bobby mutters, clearly as surprised about Dean's reaction as Sam is. "Sam, bring 'im upstairs? I'll take care of this guy."
Bobby leans down to untie the man's bonds as Sam helps his limping brother up the stairs, sitting him down on the lumpy couch. All of a sudden, Dean's eyes are falling over the weaponry and other supernatural items like a man's last minute with his eyesight.
"So this is all real? Demons and all?"
"Yeah," Sam nods gravely.
"C'mon, don't look so serious!"
"Classic Dean." Sam mutters to his lap, "Don't be so fearless. It's dangerous out there. Demons aren't handed to you in cages. People die during this job, they lose limbs, they have serious accidents… like you."
He stares grimly at the floor, not even noticing as Dean moves his from seat on the armchair and scoots closer to Sam on the couch. He vaguely feels someone bouncing on the cushions beside him and a hand rubbing at his back soothingly. Sam pries open an eyelid suspiciously.
"Stuff happens," Dean chuckles, "Hell, I can't even remember that accident!"
"Not funny, Dean."
Bobby joins the pair in the living room, his eyebrows raised up to his hairline as he watches Dean's fingers rubbing at Sam's back.
"Uh… Dean, how about you come with me upstairs? Have some books to show you." Bobby offers.
"Sure," the older Winchester smiles at Bobby before he gives another reassuring pat on Sam's back, "You all right, Sammy?"
"'M fine." Sam says hastily, his fingers rubbing at his temples as he twists his back to maneuver away from Dean's touch. He gives a stiff smile to his brother.
"There's that smile," Dean teases, "lights up the room and not to mention me." He chortles at his own joke before he hoists himself off the couch.
Bobby is gaping at the two brothers. "You know what," he growls, "Sam, can I talk to you in the kitchen first? Sorry, Dean."
Sam rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly, reluctantly meeting gazes with Bobby. "Uh, all right." He agrees timidly before he shuffles after the oldest man in the room with the slump of someone fighting their way through a waist-deep swamp.
Once they had retreat to the kitchen, Bobby grabs a whisk that's lying on the countertop and promptly thumps Sam on top the head with it.
"Ow!" Sam cries indignantly, rubbing at his forehead. "What was that for?"
"Does he not know that the two of you are brothers?"
Sam sighs, "He… he knows."
"Sam." Bobby growls warningly.
"Fine!" he purses his lips and runs a hand through his hair, "He doesn't know! It's too late to tell him now!"
Bobby heaves a sigh, his head falling into his hands, "Boy, you're even worse than Dean! The poor guy has lost his memory and deserves to know where he came from!" He hisses, "And with whom." Bobby adds as an afterthought.
"It'll be fine. I'll sort it out. Right now, he just needs a friend."
Bobby huffs in disbelief, "He's not looking for a friend. I saw that – that back massage, Sam. That's no friend you've become to him."
"I'll deal with it!"
Bobby laughs sardonically, tossing the sink back onto the counter, "Very funny, Sam. I've learned to never trust a Winchester when it comes to situations like these."