Chapter 3

Sam started awake when his father's phone rang for what had to be the seventh time in the last hour. He sat up from where he'd been slumping against the door and glowered at the phone. John dropped it on the seat between them. So far, he hadn't done more than pick it up, glance at the display, then drop it on the seat again. This was the third time it had woken Sam out of a sound sleep.

He reached out and grabbed it before it stopped ringing. John looked over as he did so. "Don't –"

Before he could even finish the statement, Sam flipped the phone open and lifted it to his ear. He didn't immediately speak because he could hear the person at the other end, yelling at what he clearly thought was an unanswered call. "Why don't you pick up your damned phone?"

"Because it's not my phone," Sam said mildly. "Hey, Uncle Bobby."

"Sam?" Bobby sounded startled. "You're with your dad?"

"I am. I take it you've heard that Dean's missing?"

"Your dad sent me his car without warning me first." Sam glanced over at his father with sympathy for Bobby. "Nearly gave me a heart attack. Where are you?"

"Actually, we're on I-80, heading towards Nevada."

"Sam!" John growled.

"I'm not actually sure where we're going, just that our general heading is north and east."

"So you're still in California," Bobby said. "I wasn't sure about the timeline exactly. His note said he was going to see you."

"What's he saying?" John demanded.

"He just wants to know where we are, Dad," Sam said. "Where are we going, anyway?"

His father glanced sideways at him. "South Dakota, actually. Bobby's the best I know of at scrying."

Sam blinked at him, then shook his head. "We're coming to you, I guess," he said.

"Really?" Bobby sounded startled. "What does he need?"

"Scrying, I guess."

"Son of a bitch!" Sam blinked at the anger in Bobby's voice. "You tell your father –"

Sam held out the phone to John. "Here, he wants to yell at you."

John took the phone and put it to his ear, listening for a second before he said, "Bobby, get over it. We can argue later, when Dean's safe." Sam could hear Bobby's voice, but not his words. "Abducted. By the demon who killed Mary." More loud squawking from Bobby. "I'll tell you everything I know when I get there, but we're just now crossing the state line into Nevada." This time Sam couldn't hear anything, but his father was silent for a moment, then said, "Yeah, if I can con Sammy into doing half the driving, we should be there in less than a day." He shook his head. "Not till we get there, Bobby. I am not talking about this over the phone." He hung up immediately after that, and Sam looked over.

"What don't you want to talk about over the phone?" he asked.

"Your mother," Dad said shortly.

"What about her?" Sam asked.

"How she died, what I think happened, any of it." John gave him a sidelong look. "How are you holding up?"

"Great," Sam said. "The girl I've been dating for two years turned out to be the figment of a demon's imagination, meanwhile, the actual girl probably feels like I've raped her repeatedly."

"Sam, you couldn't have known."

"You knew," Sam snapped, irritated by the condescension. "You knew within five minutes of coming to the apartment, I'd lay odds. What did you do to the floor in the front hall?"

"I put a devil's trap under the rug." John said. He shrugged. "And you would have known what she was, too, if you'd stuck with your family instead of running off to college."

Sam glared at him. "If I'd done that, I wouldn't have needed to know," he retorted. "I'd never have met Jessica."

"And she wouldn't have wound up with a demon inside her."

"You're saying it's my fault?" Sam exclaimed, astounded. "Stop the truck!"

"No, Sam, it's not your fault," his father growled over the top of Sam's demand to be let out. "It's just a fact. You couldn't have known, you couldn't have predicted it. But it happened because the demon was watching you."

Sam stared out the window of the truck, struggling to hold back the tears that were brimming in his eyes. Fury filled him, and he wanted to strike out at something. He smashed his fist into the dashboard, but it wasn't good enough. He did it again, and then John did pull over to the side of the road. Sam punched the dashboard a third time, and his knuckles started bleeding. A crack had developed in the plastic housing. The world was crumbling around him. Dean was gone. Jessica had never really existed. Stanford and his dreams there were history. He could feel it slipping through his fingers. And here he was with Dad. Punch. Again. Punch.

"Okay, Sam, okay." He felt his father's hand on his shoulder, but not his left shoulder, where he should be if he was still behind the wheel. John stood on the ground outside the truck, his hand on Sam's right shoulder. "Come on, get out of the truck. I think you need a little space."

Sam jerked his shoulder out from his father's grasp and shoved him out of the way so he could jump down. They were in the Sierras, so the air was chill with the scent of snow. "What am I supposed to do now?" Sam demanded. "Punch the trees? Yell at you? Do you mind if I make dents in the side of your truck?"

"Do what you need to do," John said.

Sam stared at him and his fury surged. He turned around and did slam his fist into the side of the truck. He kept punching and punching till his father grabbed hold of him and held him hard. "Sam, you're hurting yourself."

Sam clutched his aching fist to his chest and realized that his tears had long since given way and were streaming down his face. "All I ever wanted was a normal life!" he snarled.

"That possibility was taken away from you when you were six months old," John said.

"Yes!" Sam jerked away, and his father let him go. "It was taken away! By you!"

John shook his head. "By the yellow-eyed demon. He killed your mother and . . ." He paused looking irresolute. "We have to get to Bobby's, Sam. We can talk more there. I don't want to have to tell things twice."

That brought Sam up cold. He stared at his father in shock. "You . . . you don't want to tell things . . . twice?" Sam shook his head, his outrage bursting out of him in an audible huff. "You've got things to tell me about Mom, but you want to wait until Bobby can hear about it, too?" He rolled his eyes. "Why am I even surprised?" He seriously considered grabbing his bag out of the back of the truck, but this wasn't about him or about Dad. It was about Dean. Stifling a curse, he grabbed the bar and swung himself back into the truck. "Let's go, Dad."

"Sammy –" John said, looking anxiously at him.

"My name is Sam," he retorted. "Give me a couple more hours of sleep, and I'll take over driving." He jerked the door shut, put his seat belt on and composed himself for sleep.

He both heard and felt his father get back into the truck, but he steadily ignored him until he finally fell back asleep.

Sam jerked awake when the engine turned off. He scrubbed at his face, trying to figure out where he was. "Figured we could do with some food," John said, and it all came back to him. Dean, Jess, the demon. He unhooked the seat belt and pulled the visor down to make sure his hair didn't look nutty.

They got out of the truck and Sam looked up at the restaurant. It looked like a fairly standard small town diner. Ruby Station. "Where are we?"

"Elko," John said.

They went inside and got seated. Neither of them spoke until the waitress had come and taken their orders. Sam both was and wasn't hungry, but he knew he should eat. He kept starting to fidget, then stopping himself. His father pulled out his journal and started writing, looking for all the world like there was nothing on his mind. Sam got up and grabbed a newspaper off a stack by the door. Elko Daily Free Press. He read through the articles, trying to be interested in something other than the man across from him. He wasn't going to be the one to break the silence.

Their waitress came back in due course with two meals. "Has anyone ever told you that you eat like a girl?" John asked.

"Not since the last time you did," Sam said. Between anger and iron control, his face felt like it was strapped on too tight. "So, when was the last time you saw Bobby?"

"Same time you did," John said.

"Okay, so not since the time he threatened you with his shotgun?" Sam asked.

"Nope." John pursed his lips. "Dean kept in touch with him, sort of kept us apprised of each other's activities."

"Sounds like Dean."

John nodded, looking away. Sam could tell that conversation was making him uneasy at the moment, so he let it lapse, returning his attention to the article concerning the election that had taken place the previous day. Mayors changing, county supervisors, all very fascinating, especially to a man whose life was in ruins. He forced himself to match his father's calm.

His mind was racing beneath the minimal attention required to absorb yet fail to retain the words he was reading. How had Dean come to be alone? The reason Dean had given for why he couldn't leave Dad was that one of John's sons had to stay with him. Somehow that hadn't happened, and Dad hadn't even noticed that Dean was missing for two months. That thought spurred guilt in him, which turned to anger. If Dad hadn't kept pushing Dean to try and get him back, Sam wouldn't have cut ties with him. A sneaky part of his mind told him that his motive then had been guilt at making Dean unhappy. He told it to shut up and stared down at the paper. Mayor Hadley had been in charge of Elko for fourteen years. That was fascinating.

"You done?"

Sam came to himself with a start and looked down at his plate. It was still half full, but the thought of eating any more made him feel sick. He glanced at his father's plate and saw that it was clean. "Yeah, I'm good." He stood up, grabbing the toast to go. As they headed back out to the truck, Sam went around to the driver's side. When they both started to pass in front of the grill, Sam said, "My turn to drive, right?"

"Right," John said. He backtracked and went to the passenger side, using his keys to open the door and unlocking the driver's door from the automatic controls. Sam got in and held his hand out for the keys. "Just a minute," John said, fiddling with the keys in his hands. "You're right, I'm not being fair."

Sam stared at him. "No."

"What?" His father looked startled. "I don't think it's a good idea for us to talk about what happened to your mother while you're driving."

Sam took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, well aware that he might be forfeiting this rare moment of paternal fairness. He shook his head. "No way, Dad. We are not having this conversation in front of a plate glass window full of customers." John glanced up and seemed to see the sense in this. "Give me the keys, I'll pull in at the next rest stop and we can talk there."

John dropped the keys into Sam's hand and sat back. "Go for it, Sam –" The word sounded cut off, like he'd forced himself not to add the childish ending that he and Dean had favored for all of Sam's life.

The next rest stop wasn't too far from Elko, and Sam pulled in. He drove through the parking lot and chose what he thought was the most inconspicuous parking space. Not so isolated that it looked like they were angling for that, but not close to anyone else. Fortunately, the lot wasn't crowded. He turned off the engine, left the keys in the ignition and sat back, crossing his arms.

For a couple of minutes, there was silence in the cab of the truck, and Sam wondered if he'd pushed his luck too far. If that moment back outside the restaurant had been a freak impulse that his father would now be able to resist. He glanced down at the keys and contemplated starting up again since it didn't look like John was going to say anything.

"Forgive me, Sam, this is hard," Dad said finally. "This . . . situation is forcing me to tell you some things that I'd hoped never to have to tell you. That I'd prayed never to have to . . ." He trailed off, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant.

Sam swallowed uneasily. Anger and apprehension filled him equally. "What is it?"

Dad leaned forward and stared at the floor, his hands clasped between his knees. "I told you that I know what killed your mother."

"Yeah," Sam said. "A yellow-eyed demon."

"His name is Azazel, and he wasn't there for your mother."

"No?" Sam asked when his father didn't immediately go on. "Why else would he have been there? He killed her, but he didn't do anything else."

"Actually, I think he did." John looked up, and the anxiety in his eyes was plain to see. "I think he did something to you."

Sam shook his head. "Did what? That's crazy! What would a demon want with some random kid?"

"I don't think you were random, Sam, and you're not the only one. I've found six other nursery fires in 1983 where a parent died on their child's six-month birthday, four moms, one dad and a stepmom. There's something going on here. I don't know what exactly, but I can feel it out there. The parents . . ." He paused, and looked at the roof of the truck cab, like he was trying to hold back tears by gravity. "Your mother was only killed because she got in the way. She got between the demon and you."

"Why are you so sure?" Sam asked.

"I've talked to a couple of the other fathers, one of whom I had to report to the police because he's been beating his son ever since." He shuddered. "I hope Max gets the help he needs because he's one screwed up kid."

"Like we aren't?" Sam asked.

"Not like that," John snapped. "I never laid a hand on you boys in anger, never once, and I didn't spend weeks on end drunk and abusive."

Sam stared at him. "No, you didn't do that." He just hadn't been there for weeks on end. When he was there, they'd had to follow his orders fast and perfectly, and when he was gone, they were alone and had to deal with whatever happened themselves.

"Anyway, I heard your mom yell your name, and that's what got me up and moving. Jim Miller had heard the same thing. His wife yelled his son's name, and he ran in to see her burning on the ceiling."

Sam's brows knit. "He told you that?"

"He was drunk," John said. "But he believes it happened. He didn't decide he was crazy. He just blamed his son for what happened to his wife."

"But you're doing the same thing right now," Sam said. "If the demon came there after me, it's my fault Mom died. I'm –"

John reached out and squeezed Sam's shoulder. "It's not your fault, Sammy," he said. "You were six months old." John shook his head. "I –"

"If he's after me, why'd he take Dean?" Sam demanded. "Isn't that kind of a flaw in your theory?"

"I think he took Dean to . . ." John paused. "I thought he took Dean to get to you, but now I'm not so sure."

Sam's eyes widened with outrage. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You haven't spoken to your brother in over a year. That doesn't exactly inspire me with confidence that you –"

Fury flashed to the explosion point and Sam couldn't take it. He shoved the truck door open and slammed out, stomping off across the parking lot. Maybe there'd be vending machines inside that he could take his spleen out on. He heard the truck door open behind him and quickened his pace.

"Sam!"

He ignored his father's shout and kept going. He was unbelievably pissed. How could his father even suggest something like that? That Sam wouldn't care about something happening to Dean? And he either believed it, or he was just saying it to piss Sam off. Either way was unforgivable under these circumstances.

There were two vending machines inside the rest stop, one for soda, one for snacks. Digging in his pocket, he slotted coins into the soda machine. Some kind of reflex must have taken him over, though, because when he looked up, he had two Cokes, a bag of Doritos and a bag of barbecue chips. On the occasions when he'd been alone with Dad, when Dean had been off doing his own solo hunts, he'd gotten this combination habitually when they'd reached their motel at the end of the day. Evidently some part of him remembered that.