Someday Never Comes

Chapter 4

Sam stopped short, eyeing the bright green and gold marquee on the outside of the small tavern.

O'Rielley's Pub.

"Huh," he grunted softly, surprised to find an Irish pub in the middle of a ??? Hispanic community. With a shrug, he pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the dimly lit bar. It didn't take him long to find his brother. Dean was the only patron in the pub, sitting at the end of the long wooden bar, nursing a half empty mug of beer. He was listening intently to the barkeep, an obviously Hispanic man with short brown hair and dark skin. The man was telling a story as if by rote, polishing a small shot glass as he spoke.

Sam quietly approached and took a seat on the stool to the left of his brother, nodding to the barkeep when he stopped his narrative, both men turning to the newcomer.

"Carlos, this is my brother," Dean tilted his head in Sam's direction "Sammy, meet Carlos, the owner of this fine establishment."

Sam accepted the hand the barkeep held out, tilting his head in curiosity. "O'Rielley's?" he asked, his natural inquisitiveness getting the better of him.

Carlos laughed, deep and long. "That's me," he grinned. "Carlos O'Rielley." He leaned conspiratorially across the bar. " His voice held no trace of an accent and his eyes crinkled as his smile widened. "My Irish daddy had a real weakness for the dark-eyes senoritas." He winked as he slapped a hand against the bartop and pushed himself upright. "What can I get you, Sammy?"

"Sam," the young hunter corrected automatically, ignoring the soft chuckle from his right. "Just a beer, thanks."

Carlos nodded and moved off down the bar to pull the draught, giving Sam an opportunity to study his brother. Dean still looked tired. He was leaning both forearms against the bartop, a uncharacteristic sloop to his shoulders betraying his fatigue. Both hands played with the half-empty mug, twisting it back and forth before the older man's glassy gaze.

"How many of those have you had?" Sam asked innocently, nodding his thanks to Carlos as he placed the frosty amber filled mug on the bar in front of him and quietly moved away to give the brothers some privacy.

Dean took a deep breath and released a long sigh before answering. "Two."

Sam's eyes widened in surprise. "Dean, you've been here for hours."

Dean simply shrugged, the action looking as if it took more strength than he had at the moment. "Guess I wasn't as thirsty as I thought."

Sam nodded and took a sip of his beer, trying to decide the best course of action to take with his brother at the moment. Luckily Dean answered the question for him.

"I'm fine, Sam. Just tired." He finally turned to his brother, dragging dulled green eyes up to meet Sam's. "Find anything interesting at the library?"

Sam swallowed another chug of beer, accepting that his brother knew his limits – even though a lifetime of experience said otherwise.

"I was able to find a few references to the La llorana myth," he began, pulling a few printed documents from his pocket, shelving the inevitable argument about his brother's health for later when, hopefully, Dean was in more of a mood to listen. "It's a pretty common legend, although there are a lot of variations within different Hispanic cultures. For the most part, the name La llorana translates into 'the Weeping Woman.' In most myths she was a young woman who fell in love, was jilted and drown her children before taking her own life."

Dean nodded. "That's pretty much what Carlos said. According to him, there have been quite a few disappearances in the last fifty years or so. Most of the early ones were never investigated. The more recent ones are put down to accidental drownings or suicides."

Sam took a deep breath and released it slowly through his nose. "Yeah. That fits. According to the legends, the spirit haunts bodies of water, trying to find her children, asking those she considers kindrid spirits for help."

"Okay," Dean said slowly, his lips pursed in thought. "That sounds like it's what I heard. She said 'they're gone' and asked me to help find 'them' – whoever they are. But why me?" He turned to his brother, shaking his head as he tried to work out the connection. "You said she seeks out kindrid spirits." His eyes found his brother's, the question burning in the tired green depths. "Why would she appear to me?"

"Actually," Sam sighed, "I've got a theory about that." He took another sip of the cool beer before swiveling on the stool to face his brother. "The spirit is looking for whomever she lost – from what I've pieced together from the legends and what you've said, presumably her children… I think that maybe you heard her cry because you were… you are feeling the same kind of loss. The same kind of pain."

"Sam, that doesn't make any sense. Dad's the only one we lost and he died almost a year ago. Besides, he was your dad, too. Why would I be… why would I hear it and not you?"

"Because you lost Mom."

At Dean's stricken look, Sam's voice softened.

"Again."

Dean's breath hitched and he remained silent, dropping his eyes and staring sightlessly at the bartop in front of him. "You –" His voice caught and he was forced to clear his throat before continuing. "You said it yourself. It wasn't real."

Sam nodded once, his eyes remaining on his brother's profile. "But it felt real." He waited until Dean's head tipped slightly in acknowledgement. "Dean, this is me. I know you better than anyone. I know this… these memories – real or false – are killing you. You got Mom back and then you lost her all over again. Only this time it wasn't some demon that took her away… it was you giving her up – giving it all up -- and that's tearing you apart."

"Sam…"

"No, Dean. You can't keep burying this. I've tried to stay quiet – let you deal with this your own way, but now it's making you a target. Please, Dean. You can't keep doing this to yourself. Just… please… let me help."

"How?" Dean's voice held a hard edge, thought it remained low and barely audible. "I admit it, I'm a mess. Is that what you want to hear?" He glanced at Sam, anger sparking his green eyes. "And this spirit came after me because… because I was ripe for the picking. Fine. I get it. What happened happened. The djinn fucked with my head and I'm screwed up enough that this bitch wants me to join her book club. I get it, Sam. Now, what do we do about it?"

Sam sighed. That wasn't the kind of response he was expecting. He never wanted Dean to feel cornered and he certainly didn't want his brother feel that any of this was his fault. He just wanted to help Dean get some kind of… peace. He wanted Dean to realize that he was entitled to his dreams, his desires, that not everything had to be sacrificed because it was what was expected.

He wanted Dean to believe that it was okay to want something for himself and even though his desires couldn't possibly come true, it was still okay to want them. It didn't make him weak and it didn't make him selfish. It simply made him human.

But Dean's way of dealing with emotion was to turn it back onto the job. As long as he had a hunt, he had a reason to bury his feelings deep enough that they couldn't hurt anymore. Although he was disappointed that Dean had decided to ignore his own pain and focus on the hunt they had managed to stumble into, his brother's penchant for redirecting attention away from himself and on to some plan of action didn't really surprised him.

"Salt and burn," Sam responded with a defeated shrug. "There's only one problem."

"Only one?"

Sam chuckled, glad he could still count on his smart ass older brother to cut through the tension even when he himself was at the heart of it. When Dean buried his pain, he did it without hesitation. "Well, one big one. I have no idea who she is, and, considering that when most of these people migrated here they were illegals…." He shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid.

"There's no records of deaths," Dean finished, rubbing a hand across his face.

"Bingo," Sam responded. "Meaning there's no record of burial."

Dean sighed and downed the rest of his beer, grimacing at the warm liquid. "Terrific."

Sam followed suit and then stood, signaling that it was time to head out. "Look, Dean. We've found unmarked graves before. It'll just take us a little longer than normal. In the meantime…" He thrust his hands into his pockets and raised his eyesbrows giving his brother a once over. "You really look like shit, Dean."

The older man chuckled, but didn't argue. "Okay, okay. Put away the puppy eyes, Sammy. I'm coming." He wearily forced himself up from the stool, slapping a hand on the bar to get Carlos' attention. "Dude, thanks for the beer."

Carlos nodded, giving the brothers a modest wave as they moved toward the door.

"Be careful, amigos," he cautioned with a sad smile.

Dean returned the smile. "Always."

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