Summary: Things may be falling apart, but Sam finds some inch of peace. Dean on the other hand — not so much.
Warnings for alcoholism and mental illness, usual business.
It's been months since the death of that hunter kid, and Dean had lost the trail. Which is friggin' annoying as hell, and it all just seems too clean; how is this kitsune keeping ahead of him so easily? Sam had tracked Amy well enough, just has they had many of the same breed of being in the past. This one, though. This one seems to be predicting just where, how, and when Dean would be following the scent. The trail's cold. It's as cold as beach water in December. As cold as the goddamn glaciers spinning at the top of the globe. It seems like whoever the hell it is, they keep getting juuust enough glands and preserving them in mathematically precise measurements. By the time they're needing more, they're all the way on the other side of the country to clean house. Morgue house.
It just makes him more and more eager to catch the next break. He's got all hunters passing his many cell numbers around on it. Hell, they can at least throw him a dial if they actually kill the bastard (even if he has questions, even if he isn't sure on this one, isn't sure why it's trying to pretend it can be a pacifist when one hunter is dead, but jesus, was it self-defense, he doesn't know). What compels this asshole to try and be civil? Dean's trying his damnedest not to let morality — Sam's memory — get to him, because he can imagine his brother looking discouraged and disappointed, staring at him from over the top of Dean's many beer cans. He's drunk as hell tonight, living in the past and in regrets.
Five years. Five years. Five years of Sam being gone, of him being shoved apparently into a monster ring that nobody had fucking cracked in all that time. He was in that truck. Burnt into nothing. Attempts to forcefully summon Crowley for negotiations at gunpoint has been met with squat, and Dean's hands shake and shake at the thought of Sam possibly being trapped down there deep in the foul stenches of brimstone. Castiel always tells him, always — It's okay, if he's there he'll raise him back, he'll get Sam back, he'll figure it out. But Cas can't just fly into Hell anymore. And there are very few angels worth their feathers who'd be willing to help a Winchester either. Dean entertains the idea of making deals anyway. Of course he does. But the idea of going demonic is a little horrifying, and Sam's gone because of his fucking stupid choices. Gone. God knows where.
He finishes off his last can, and he knows his head is gonna be killing him in the morning. The bunker's so quiet.
"Do you really think this is what Sam would want?" Castiel asks, creeping up as usual. Bastard. Dean looks over his shoulder with a glower, feeling that unfair sensation of blame curdling like milk in his stomach. It's easy to blame others, easy to point a finger at Cas and demand him to try harder, to tell him that he's failing at every turn. The truth is, every time he does, he's really just trying to make himself feel less like shit. He'd know, he's done it to Sam before. It's easy, and he pretends it hurts less. Lately, he's found that once the drunken stupor fades, he's just an idiot-asshole. He's fallen low. Life's hard, boo hoo. You lose.
"Shut up, Cas, it's Saturday night and I'm in love with this brand."
"Every night seems to be Saturday night," he says and then plucks up the bottle from Dean's uncoordinated fingertips.
Dean snaps up like a jackknife. Oh, he friggin' hopes Cas is setting him up for a fistfight. Sure, he'd 100% lose. It's not like Dean has to worry about the Mark of Cain anymore, right? It's back in Cain's possession, and that son-of-a-bitch is somewhere nobody can ever reach him; Castiel's word. Castiel's stupid word, out of his stupid mouth. He wants his bottle back, even though he was just about done anyway. Despite the fact that the floor could beat him in a brawl.
"Put it down," Dean growls. "What're you, my mom?"
"Hardly," Castiel says nonchalantly, reading the back of the bottle for contents. "Do you really think I'm going to let you ruin your liver after I brought it back from Hell in peak condition? I've already had to cure you of alcohol poisoning twice since Metatron died." Dean grits his teeth and swipes for the bottle, and Cas shoves him with that angelic strength back down into the chair, unimpressed. Dean hates being treated like some dog jumping on the dinner table. He goes in swinging, itching for a fight, but Castiel just as easily trips the drunk man straight into a desk lined with books. Dean's stomach hits the edge and he oofs.
"Goddammit, Cas, I don't need you to look out for me!"
"It's what Sam would have wanted," Cas says solemnly. It takes a lot of the wind from Dean's sails. Punches holes in it really. He wilts, rubs a hand over his face.
"... I just..." he murmurs, voice crackling weakly, "I just want to know. I just want to know where he is."
Castiel walks to one of the decrepit sinks, gas masks lining the wall beside it. He pours the drink down the drain.
"I know."
Dean's phone rings. He lazily digs for it in his pocket, denim rough against his hand, and when he eyes the screen tiredly, he sees that it's Charlie.
He answers, and her voice sobers him, just a little.
"Dean, I saw him," is all she says. It's enough.
And it sobers him a lot.
Here's how things went wrong.
Charlie found him.
Sam stares back at her for what feels like forever, and he knows what forever feels like; he's been in Lucifer's Cage. She's looking at him like he's a ghost, and now that he has the wit to think about it, she probably really did think that she was staring at a ghost. A strange, thinner, paler ghost of her former friend. He swallows hard and tries to feel some modicum of happiness at seeing her. He's too anxious to be disappointed that he doesn't find any at all — frantic on the inside, like he may just crumple into a paper-like ball right in front of her. Her bright eyes are glistening with newfound discovery, like she's gone and found a long lost relative, and she moves forward and throws her arms around his shoulders with a shocked sob.
"We thought you were dead, Sam, we thought — "
Messy, Charlie. He'd be thinking how messy it is, for her to trust in his appearance like this. She doesn't know what potential dangers wait, and that's even considering he may not be himself at all. Instead of being able to focus on that thought, he panics instantly. He can't do this, he can't face his past or let them face him back. They just don't understand what he is now. He shoves Charlie backward, and she scrambles to stay upright as goes near-toppling; she catches the table nearby with a nimble hand and stabilizes, but her stare has gone from pure relief and bliss to startled confusion. And, Sam thinks miserably, concern.
"... Dude, what the heck? It's me."
He swallows hard, the knot hardly unraveling in his throat, and puts his hand up. Bidding her to keep her distance.
"I'm — sorry, I'm sorry, Charlie. I have a hard time with... that, right now," he says slowly. Everything's fuzzy around the edges, pulsing. He feels like he's having a heart attack. Some twisted corner of his mind says how much easier it could have been, if he entertained the idea of killing her quickly. It horrifies him, makes him queasy. What does he do? What can he do? Other than stand here and look like he's on the verge of running, not much.
She straightens up as the lightbulb in her head blinks to life. Ah. Her expression softens and she steps backward one more step. As if that little fraction of distance will sooth Sam's flayed nerves. He appreciates her concerns, and his lips twitch in an attempt to smile sympathetically, though it's too mechanical and he's too close to some invisible ledge. He's glad she can't understand why he's like this; if the monster ring — the bloodbaths — had captured her, what would she have turned into? He thanks whatever there is left looking after them, that he was isolated in this. Well... from the people most dear in his life. Sam tucks his bangs back behind his ear, shorter than Charlie likely remembers. It's been so long. What the hell is she even doing out here? He realizes she must have gotten back to hunting after her stay in Oz.
Oz. Oz, where there's Glenda, Glenda the shapeshifter crumpled in a pile with his face, Glenda who just wanted to go home. No place like home, the place Sam avoids like the plague. Or does he have one? He has a little shapeshifter at home waiting for him, playing with cheap toys and eating television dinners Leia makes with utmost care; just like Dean and Sam, waiting for dad to come home. He has to go home, shouldn't leave them long. He has no choice. He doesn't do it to hunt. He does it for food. He does it to keep her alive. And now, this? This mess?
God, everything is ruined. He almost wants to cry.
"No... I'm sorry, I didn't think. I." She clears her throat. "Dean's been wondering — god, what are you even doing here? Are you working cases right now? We thought you were super dead, but you're just in... a dumpy city, cleaning up shop on jobs? After what happened — "
"Seemed like the thing to do," he manages, throat constricted. A whisper, a sandpapered attempt to be blasé. It only serves to fire up her confounded lecturing. It's easier than Dean's by far, more utter confusion than finger-pointing, and yet it still gives his heart the same vice-like effect.
"We thought you were dead! You should have told us! After we learned about the monster fighting, I scoured all over for spell books for Dean, and Castiel was looking for you, and — and... Oh, god. It's been years. I gotta tell Dean, Sam. He's got to know you're okay!" It's enough to make the hairs on his neck stand straight up. He steps forward and makes fists at his sides, his mind flashing back to his dreams, his nightmares: hunters ripping Leia and Lilly into pieces; Leia starving without him; Dean, plunging the demon-killing knife into his lung, filling it with blood. He feels like there's already something sharp there in his chest, twisting and twisting. He's bound to burst, breathless, but he has to stay calm. He has to not blank out, has to try to keep this all okay.
"No, please," he pleads. He's desperate, and she's looking at him like he's gone crazy. And he has. He knows it. "Please, Dean can't know that I'm out here. Please. Charlie, I can't — it's so complicated, and I swear, I'll tell him someday. I swear." Lie, lie, lie. "I just can't do that right now, you understand? You get me? He won't understand; he'll hu — He just can't. Please, please promise me. Please. I need some time alone. After what happened, I need some time."
Charlie just stares. She's afraid. That's good, isn't it? Why is she looking at him like that?
"I'm not gonna — hurt you," Sam manages.
She blinks and snaps out of it. "... I know, Sam. I know."
He wrings his hands together, glancing away. "Um... This was... probably ghouls. I followed the trail, but it's cold."
"Do you want — " Charlie starts, "Sam, come with me? You can stay at my hotel. We can look into other leads, if you want..."
He sees what she's trying, so he does smile. It's the worst smile. He must look batshit crazy, right now. "Sorry. I gotta go."
"... If you're in trouble, Sam... You've got us to help you. We can help you..."
He backs away, and to her credit, she doesn't move. She just looks at him with those sad, sad eyes, nowhere near as hurt and dazed but all too lost. He slinks into the shadow and shakes his head sadly. And whatever she thinks, whatever she wants, whatever she sees, she doesn't follow. She doesn't do anything. Not until she drives back to her motel and stares at the phone for a good hour, chilled to the bone and unsettled. Sam starts his drive back home. It takes days, even longer when he makes sure nobody has even the slightest chance of following him, but he gets home.
He grabs his girls and holds them close at the front door.
Dean's mind is tail-spinning into reckless abandonment the moment Charlie tells him what had happened. For one thing, he has to try to comprehend the fact that Sam's alive and just... fucking around somewhere in the western side of the United States. For another, he can't stop thinking his brother's name on repeat, like it's something a delinquent writes on a whiteboard, only he feels like he's written it pretty much all his life. It's instinctive, for all his faults, and god knows he's made mistakes with Sam. But every molecule in his body is pushing him to get in his car and peel out, to not stop until he's in that rickety-ass town Charlie spoke of, and to scour every single inch of its terrain until he sees his brother.
What will he say? What can he even say? Sorry? He can hardly be angry about this avoidance shit. Dean did his time in Purgatory, but he can hardly grasp what it was like for Sam in the fighting ring; it's not the same, even if there are a few like0minded dances. He's only gotten short glimpses of that world since hunters had taken those places apart, dismantled them and burned bodies... monster and hunter corpses alike. Why wouldn't Sam come back to him, though, after that kinda' hell? He comes to the conclusion when he recollects their final moments together. Ah, yes. Because it was his fucking fault Sam was even there to begin with. He knocked his brother unconscious and left him in a fucking road. Defenseless. Unaware of danger. He slipped the metaphorical roofie. On more than one fucking occasion. Sam trusted him before Gadreel. And Sam trusted Dean before Metatron, and he sucker-punched him.
Seems like it's been a hobby of his. Sucker-punching.
Lord knows he's got a laundry list.
First thing's first — he throws up in the toilet.
And then, feeling so much more sober, he packs up the car with his and Sam's duffel and takes Cas with. There are people he needs to call. There are things he needs to get straight, concerns he needs to voice. Word for word, Charlie's conversation is like daggers between his ribs. "I don't know," she'd said, and he remembers as he drives with a silent but no doubt thoughtful Castiel in Sam's seat. "I don't know, Dean, something was wrong. He just... He wasn't himself. He didn't want me anywhere near him, and — I mean, with what he's probably seen, what he dealt with, I get that. He just seemed like he had a lot he didn't want to talk about. He was hiding something. Maybe he's still in trouble..."
Sam, in trouble. And Dean, powerless to help. Not this time. Getting down to the bottom of this and getting his brother back, that's the goal.
If Sam even wants him back.
Because it sounds a hell of a lot like he doesn't.
"If he's really okay," Dean says — to Castiel, and to the road — "If he's okay and he hates me, it's... okay. As long as he's okay."
"I don't think it's possible for Sam to hate you," Cas says, not to the road, but straight at Dean.
Dean always had a love-hate relationship with his friend's forwardness.
He piles on the mph and hopes highway patrol are on donut break.
Please, please. Just one good thing.
He takes his phone and makes a call.
"... Hey, Garth? I know you're out, but I need you to collect some stuff for me... It's for Sam."
Sam.
Sam had made it a point to hole up in the cabin and not leave for anything. After seeing Charlie again, he couldn't be sure who to trust — couldn't be sure he could trust her, no matter how noble her intentions would be. In a way, he spends the next few weeks dreading a knock at the door, even despite the fact that he had covered his tracks with utmost care after the surprise meeting. He even swapped his vehicle out. Again. His paranoia leaves him awake at night, though he surrenders to a few hours of rest when he realizes the girls are mimicking his habits.
He doesn't mean to scare them, but fear is a very important and and real survival mechanism, right now.
Time heals none of his anxiety, but it does leave him with room to think. He doesn't dream of leaving the property, not until the rations are used up and he has no choice but to venture out into that unpredictable world beyond him. That world that is, in its own way, like a fighting ring all its own. It's a ring, and this little cabin, this little house, is the cage that he finds solace in. That they all find solace in. He checks the generic calendar in the kitchen that Lilly picked from the dollar store — some kid's show that left an impression, he supposes — and marks the days down. In the backyard, he collects more wood to take his time. And as an excuse to survey the land for safety a few more times. He even wonders if he's at all capable of building a tree-house. Would they even want a tree-house? He feels qualified enough to almost break his neck trying.
One particular morning, he finally settles down long enough to wander back inside and collect Leia from the small living room; she and Lilly (Caleb), they're watching an old copy of the Transformers cartoon. It's kind of weird to watch them sometimes, because there's a sense of peace. They're so utterly enthralled by the moving pictures on the screen, you'd think they never had to make the worst choices in life.
"Hey," Sam says quietly. He leads Leia into the kitchen and hesitantly slides open the furthest drawer, where there's a package wrapped up in a nice and neat beige paper and carefully tied twine. It's just some wrap you'd find from a post office, really, nothing fancy, but he figures that Leia wouldn't care about the presentation as much as he clearly did (such carefully folded and taped corners). He offers it to her regardless, a sheepishness replacing some of the heavily guarded tension he'd been feeding into the household for the last few weeks. "You, um. You remember? You told me it was July 17th. Your birthday. It's nothing special, but I saved it so I definitely had something in case things got busy..."
Or dangerous. Or too paranoid.
They sure did, too.
She doesn't seem to know what to do with it, at first. She studies it like there's a Waldo Where'ing around on it. She scrapes at the packaging with a nail, then cuts with more confidence, tearing along the side with a claw that needs a trimming. Her face is the softest he's ever seen it, save for maybe the moment she'd informed Lilly about Heaven and what is(n't) waiting for them. For some reason, Sam feels really damned embarrassed right now. He wasn't that great at theater; he had a hard time filling his roles. But Leia just runs her hand reverently along the flower pattern on the revealed jewelry box. It's nothing special, Sam thinks. From the way she smiles, though, maybe it is. He hopes it is.
"If, um. If you open it, it plays a tune. It's got one of the little ballerinas in there and everything."
He gives a lopsided little smile, feeling kind of lame.
"Sorry, it's not a party, but I could make... Er, try to make something sweet..."
She steps forward and hugs him tightly. Her hands collect the tails of his flannel in balled fists. A language of its own.
"Thank you," says the girl, her voice low and content, and Sam feels stronger than he has in a long time. Like... maybe he can do something worthwhile, in the end, even with their futures sitting precariously on a window's ledge. And for some reason, for some fucked-up reason he can't comprehend, when she says — again, more firmly — "Thank you, dad," he can't even find it in his heart to correct her. Maybe he doesn't want to, even if he knows he should. He leans his chin into the crown of her head and plays along, his reply sure and strong for the first time in a long time.
"No, thank you, sweetheart."
Aw, fuck, he thinks. Aw, fuck, he loves them. It could all be over any day now, but he loves them.
It makes everything else a little more survivable.
Many, many, many miles away, Dean and Cas learn about shifter skins found in a cheap diner restaurant, though it was a ways back. It's in a neat-n-tidy hunter's casefile, long since left untouched thanks to a lack of homicide, because actual murders are kind of a priority over gross skin-shedding. Shifter never caught, so says Garth the werewolf. But Dean finally sees a pattern — there's a trail. There's a trail, and he grins for all of a day before more of the grim details click together. Castiel takes his own car and starts a pilgrimage around the radius Charlie had encountered his brother. Dean sits in a motel room he bought for a week, cash up front, hands shaking but mind abundantly clear. He's never had so much purpose in the last few years. He's never been so close.
A precarious balance, Dean's happiness. A short-lived beast.
It's easy to follow Sam on a map once he knows it's Sam, because he knows Sam. This is the same guy who spoke in unison him effortlessly like some weird, small hive-mind. Same guy who cracks the same stupid lines in a police interrogation area. Same guy who just knows Dean, knows his moods and patterns, knows everything about what food he likes, his clothing sizes, his favorite brands, his fears and weaknesses. It's easy. It's so fucking easy. He connects Sam to an old truck after a sleepless night intercepting old surveillance footage from public streets. The vehicle was sold cheap to a farming couple, its only issue a broken mirror and worn brakes.
... Same truck found at the death of a young hunter who had his head cut open and his brains scavenged through.
Dean remembers being there.
He feels hot and cold all over. Video footage follows the truck. Days pass in real-time. He buys the motel room out for another week. Two weeks. Sam's good, but Dean knows him. Dean knew him. Garth gets him records. He pours through them, drinks them down like a bottle of priceless wine. Sam's angular and downcast face appears briefly in a convenience store feed; it's clear Sam's trying to avoid looking into it so he's not easily identified, but it's Sam. Dean stares at the short section of video for what feels like hours. The bastard's lost even more weight than Dean remembers. His hair is shorter. The feed is too blurry, though. He can hardly see his face; piece-of-shit feed, he can barely see his brother's face.
"Sammy, what the fuck," he whispers, rubbing his eyes.
Why was Sam at the scene of a hunter's murder, the night he was killed?
Two children appear briefly in the same tape, in the same feed. The older one, blonde, is only the back of a head; she never turns. Sam crouches down, though, and picks up the youngest child (god, probably barely out of diapers? What the fuck, Sam? What the fuck?), as he pays for gas. Sam barely seems to look at the cashier at the counter, like he's got to hold an umbrella over his sins that block out the suspicious looks. Yeah, Sam's not giving the cameras any mind, but the little girl is. She sucks her fingers, or picks her nose, fuck if he can tell from this quality. She looks up at the camera. Or maybe at the mirror in the corner of the store; one of those round, weird mirrors you can see your reflection in.
Dean holds his breath and watches as her eyes flash a telling flash. Bright, shape-shifter eyes.
Things fall into place.
Doubt clouds Dean's vision and starts to spoil his answered prayers.
"Cas," Dean says numbly into his cell, the angel two states away behind the speaker of a phone. His voice drips with a threat. "It might not be Sam."
Because it's possible Sam never left the bloodbaths alive.
Oh, it's possible.
Charlie never tested him. Charlie never tested him.
All this time, and his brother may very well be a monster in sheep's clothing.
The thought almost breaks his phone against a wall.
It has to be Sam.
Isn't it?
Isn't it?
