Thanks to all who've been reading, and special thanks to msnancydrew for all her hard work as my beta.
Cracking one eye open no farther than a mere slit, only far enough to let light through, Dean immediately wished he hadn't done that. Other thoughts of what he wished he hadn't done in the past few days filtered into his head. He lay there, wherever there was…in a bed was all he knew for sure…letting the haze clear. His brain felt like a bundle of cotton balls, his mouth tasted like a bundle of cotton balls dipped in cow manure. He wasn't even sure what day it was, that scared him a bit, more than a bit. He'd never been so drunk in his life, he had no idea how long it'd been since he'd bolted out, left the apartment. Since he'd left Sam.
Sam.
He knew he had one seriously freaked out little brother, which at some point would lead to one seriously pissed off little brother. Well he'd deal with it, but not now. He had more pressing needs right now.
Vomit.
His brain was demanding vomit, so was his stomach. They were definitely together on that. He probably had to pee too, hard to tell with all the vomit wandering around wanting out. With a groan, Dean pushed himself onto his elbows, slowly pulling his arms under his chest and carefully, very carefully he lifted off the bed. Getting brave he managed to turn his head, first one way, then the other. No one was in the bed with him, pity, or maybe not since he wasn't exactly at his best right now. Thankfully there was a bathroom off the small bedroom he was in. It was a long haul, and he tripped a few times, but managed to make it to the bathroom, vomiting in the toilet, and not all over himself or the floor.
Always a bright spot.
Drunk. Laid. Fight. Well, one out of three wasn't so bad Dean reasoned. Though he might have picked one of the other two to excel at. Which brought him back to his original question of where was he, and how did he get there? Which were really two questions, but whatever.
Fifteen minutes later, stomach sufficiently empty, Dean was grateful to find a toothbrush, some towels and a shower. Cleaned up, he almost felt like maybe someday he'd feel human again. At least the stink that followed him mostly went away. Crossing the bedroom to the window, careful not to anger his insides any more than he already had, Dean pulled aside the curtains and peered out.
A small gravel parking area where his car was parked lay just beyond a walkway and narrow strip of grass. Looking at the outside of wherever he was through the window Dean realized he was staring at the back of Craven's house, which settled him down a bit. For about three seconds before he had thoughts of why was he sleeping in Craven's house. Worse yet, had he driven here? The queasiness in his stomach was driven out, replaced by a hot coil of anger worming its way around his insides. Anger at himself. More than anger, he despised himself right then. He couldn't form a coherent train of thought, he needed to get his head cleared and straightened out before he could do anything constructive. There was the matter of what Sam told him, the implications and just what Dean intended to do about it, if anything.
Resting his cheek against his bicep, gazing out the window at his car one memory filtered through, one-hundred-eight missed phone calls. Digging his cell from his jeans pocket Dean flipped it open and checked, he actually had one-hundred-eight missed calls, all from the same number, Sam's phone. He'd turned the ringer off before he'd gotten to his car after leaving the apartment and had pretty much ignored it until….until…until he'd called someone. Someone not Sam. Who else would he call? He started going through the calls, for the first forty there were no messages. Called someone to ask them to do something…what? Take care of….the memory was hazy, take care of…it was right on the periphery of his mind….Sam! Someone to take care of Sam. Call forty-three stopped his mental ramblings.
"Dean…come on man, I know you're pissed….just…." an odd breath Dean didn't want to acknowledge held tears and something far beyond apprehension in Sam's soft voice. "…just, please….lemme know you're ok." That one was the day after he'd left. He hadn't thought himself a cold-hearted bastard until now.
Bar. He'd been in a bar, with some guy named Ted, and how he hoped Ted worked there. Called someone from the bar to take care of Sam, yeah, he'd done that. Concha! Holy hell he'd called Concha. Memory of her driving his car, shoving him onto the bed, leaving…..call number ninety-seven stopped him, sent a cold spike through him, piercing the anger and making him feel worse than any hangover, or anything, ever could.
"Dean? It's me….I keep calling, guess you know by now…I wish you'd answer, so I could know you're ok. I didn't…I mean maybe some day you'll….." Deep, heavy sigh, Sam wasn't crying, was he? No, yes. Damn. "I just want you to know man, something else I never told you, more important than anything, what I got from…You know what I think, everything that's in me that's good and right, I didn't get that from Mom and really not from Dad, I didn't get it from anyone but you…"
Ok, that did it Dean was officially a cold, heartless bastard. That is if he had a heart left, since it'd just been torn out. Maybe he could find it one day soon.
He needed to go talk to Sam, or duke it out with him, or whatever, and he would too. But Dean had forgotten where he was right now, again. He did manage to think enough to realize he might have consumed near lethal levels of alcohol. Real bright Winchester. Craven's house, he remembered with sudden clarity, he was in Craven's house. He needed his head cleared of the fuzziness, which he realized he'd thought of a few minutes before. On shaky legs Dean made his way to the door, he couldn't do damn thing from this room, other than vomit. With even shakier hands he fumbled with the door-knob finally succeeding in pulling the door open. He took a step out into the hall, the kitchen he could see was off to his right. He'd never been in this part of the house. A deep breath, another step, maybe he could just sneak out, not encounter the ghost. Having no idea where his keys were if he didn't see them soon he'd just come back later for his car, nothing would bother it here.
Two steps farther down the hall Dean's stomach lurched violently when Craven materialized in front of him. "Well, nice to see you walking by yourself." The spirit greeted him brightly, happily.
"Yeeaah….thanks, for letting me stay here. I hope it wasn't, that I wasn't…."
"No worries, either of you are welcome here whenever you want. Though I must say your snoring is loud enough to wake the dead. Oh, wait, it did."
Dean glanced sheepishly at the floor. "Be lucky it wasn't Sam snoring. Cause dude, damn." Feeling suddenly dizzy, another harsh wave of nausea and reality crashing over him Dean swayed, then staggered. Instinctively he reached out, intending to steady himself on Craven. Grabbing at the man's shoulder Dean realized too late that wasn't a good idea. His hand passed straight through Craven, overbalanced he dropped to the floor. Wiping one hand over his face, then through his hair Dean looked up. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He knew full well when Craven wanted to he could do anything a solid, living person could.
"Yes." Craven nodded, smile plastered all over his lean face.
"Bastard." Dean flipped his middle finger up at Craven, which caused the spirit to throw his head back and laugh heartily.
"No, not really." He held one hand out to Dean.
Dean gave him a vile look, shaking his head, and climbed to his feet. "I got it." Righted once again, though swaying the tiniest bit, he had a hard time looking Craven in the eye, but spoke anyway. "Thanks, I mean it. Do you know where my keys are?"
"You can't drive like this."
"Fine. I'll walk." Dean tried for long, determined strides, managed short, shaky ones, but was headed down the hall to the outer door at the far end of the kitchen. As soon as he stepped into the kitchen he found he was back in the hall, just at the far end. Sighing deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger he glared at Craven. Craven watched him with a mild, almost innocent look on his face. Dean tried again, and again as soon as he entered the kitchen he was back in the hall, this time right in front of the bedroom door. Hands dropping to his sides, shoulders sagging, "Dude! What? This isn't great for the headache, knotted stomach, and hello--man with hangover here! Have some compassion."
"And whose fault is the hangover?"
Dean groaned.
"I have plenty of compassion, I'm loaded with compassion, I'm a compassion barrel overflowing. Which is why you are not leaving until you can at least walk without falling, and not until you've had something to cure that hangover. Along with a decent meal."
Dean glared.
Craven turned to the side, holding one arm out motioning Dean to the kitchen. With a deep, irritated sigh (Dean knew defeat when he saw it), and wary watchfulness aimed at Craven he stepped forward, again going into the kitchen. This time, thankfully, it stayed the kitchen. Craven pulled a chair away from the table, nodding to it.
Dean sat, glared, groaned and dropped his chin into his palm. His eyes followed Craven, only partially interested in what the spirit was mixing up. "Ya know," He drawled, "Here's an interesting fact I read the other day. In Indonesia, the penalty for masturbation is decapitation."
Swiveling around on his heels, Craven leveled a look at him, making Dean grin. "Drink this. It'll help with the hangover."
A glass was set in front of him, Craven settled in another chair, mug of tea in hand. "What is it? You drink?"
Craven's eyebrows shot up. "Yes I do, and smoke, not like it's going to hurt me." He waved his mug at Dean's glass, "That's an ancient Egyptian remedy, never found anything better."
Sniffing the mixture, deciding it had an odd, but not gross unpleasant type odor Dean took a tentative sip. "This isn't Yak piss or anything is it?"
"Goat."
Dean choked and gagged, slamming the glass down, "What?"
"It's a joke Dean. Herbs, some fruit, no bodily fluids of any sort. Now, drink up or don't leave."
Growling, Dean lifted the glass and sipped the thick, tan liquid again. Craven simply watched him placidly. Apparently the growl didn't impress Craven anymore than it did Sam. He was going to have to work on that. The drink turned out to be pretty refreshing, and calmed his stomach enough for him to realize there were interesting, enticing smells coming from the other side of the kitchen.
"Feeling better?" Craven rose, crossed to the oven, pulling something out.
'Yes, I actually am." Straightening Dean turned, stretched his neck a bit to see. The aroma wafting through the kitchen at him was starting to make his stomach grumble, and not because it wanted to expel its contents at any unsuspecting passerby. "Um…what's that?"
"It's called strata. Eggs, ham, cheese layered in a crust."
"You…cook?"
"I eat too. Besides the ladies like a man who can whip them up something wonderful for breakfast."
Dean's gaze popped to Craven's face. "You--?"
"Yes." It was one firmly spoken word, in the way that plainly said, none of your business.
"Oh." Scratching the back of his head, Dean looked out the window and around the room. "I don't suppose you have any coffee?"
"I do, but you get more of this." Craven handed him another full glass of 'hangover remedy.'
Dean sheepishly took it, terribly interested in the tops of his boots for a few minutes until a plate of strata appeared on the table in front of him. He glanced up, smiled for a few seconds at Craven, saying, "Thanks a lot. You're not such a bad guy for a ghost."
"Ethereal entity. And thank you."
"Right, ethereal entity." Making a mental note to himself that the next time someone offered Sam a scholarship Dean was going to remember to ask exactly how old the teachers were, and if they were dead or alive. If dead, how long had they been dead? Sam was right, their lives were too weird sometimes. Most of the time. "This stuff is great." He said between mouthfuls of food. "Sam would love this. Not that there'll be any left for him."
Craven chuckled. "I think there'll be enough to pack him up some." Leaning back in his chair, he studied Dean for a few seconds. Dean tried to not notice, he wasn't totally successful. "Did you find out what the troll asked your brother?"
Forkful of food stopped halfway to his mouth. He was motionless for several breaths before setting it down, looking Craven straight in the eye. "Yes. I did. But you probably already know that."
"No. It was just a guess. I haven't talked to Sam since before you came here a few days ago. I believe Concha went over for a visit."
Dean didn't miss the fact Craven referred to Concha's mission as a visit, not Dean requesting his brother be checked on, looked after like a child.
"I had no way of knowing what the troll would want from him. Either of you really. The thing needed to be gone, I thought, correctly, you could accomplish that."
Immediately Dean recognized the apology. This certainly wasn't Craven's fault. Not really Sam's either, Winchester, you cold, heartless bastard. "It wasn't your fault. I know you didn't do anything intentionally."
"Then put the blame where it belongs."
Dean set the fork down completely, leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together. His stomach might have been mended by the magic hangover remedy, but his head was still a bundle of cotton. "I'm listening."
"Sam showed me the list of supplies, told me what happened, rather what he thinks happened. So, tell me, what do you think, could Sam have done something? If he had, where would your brother be now?"
Dead, possessed, dead and possessed…evil, dead and possessed…Alone, no way to be saved, which led to evil, dead and possessed. "No where I really want to think about." Dean said with complete honesty. But of course he already had thought about it plenty.
"It must have been a terrible position for him to be in, knowing what those things were probably meant for, having to decide what to do."
Dean couldn't respond to that, his throat picked that particular moment to constrict down, and in reality, Craven was right. He could only nod, acknowledging what the man said, really said in so few words. Craven sat quietly, letting Dean collect himself. Finally, after a few deep breaths Dean was able to speak. "Sam, he never really took to hunting, never really liked it. He still doesn't. He does like that we've helped a few people. He told me once he does it because it's what our Dad would have wanted."
Craven snorted, "I think it's more because it's what you want, for your approval. I'm willing to bet he told you that because he probably thought it was what you wanted to hear. You think he would have continued if you'd died?"
"I doubt it." He probably wouldn't have had much of a chance to decide either way. "And he's never needed to do anything for my approval." Dean snapped.
"Does he know that?"
"I guess, I never really thought about it."
It was true, Dean never thought about not offering Sam approval, for anything he did. He might not have always agreed with Sam's methods, but withdrawing his acceptance, his approval as Craven put it, was simply unthinkable to Dean. It was something he prided himself on. He worked very hard to take people, especially Sam, for what they were. To accept his brother as he was. He'd never really cared if Sam was good at hunting or not, or what Sam's motivations were for continuing. He cared that he had his brother, and that was all. He'd always offered Sam his approval, because lord knew no one else would, freely, without reservation, without ever thinking about it. Sam always happily took it. The thought Sam hunted because it was what Dean wanted never once occurred to him. But he could see it, Sam would willingly (if not always without protest) follow him along on whatever, or into wherever.
"Maybe you should, once and a while."
The revelation came to him, Sam didn't like hunting, but would do so with Dean, had only really hunted with Dean. For Dean. Because of Dean. Sam would probably do just about anything Dean asked of him. He'd certainly allowed himself to be put into situations he normally would have shied away from, trusting it was right because Dean said it was, because Dean said it was important or necessary. Sam had more personal motives now, but that hadn't always been the case. Even without those motives Dean believed Sam would hunt with him, all Dean had to do really was ask. It was all he had had to do.
Head spinning, Dean couldn't be upright and maintain an intelligent thought at the same time. For now Sam was fine, he knew, and he certainly couldn't carry on a decent conversation with the kid in his current state. He opted for a nap. Thanking Craven again, and grateful his offer to help with dishes was brushed off, Dean headed back to the small bedroom. Stretching out on the bed, one arm over his face his mind drifted around, not really letting him sleep. Thoughts, ones he'd always known and never really given the opportunity to form, take shape, be real to him, rumbled around his fuzzy brain.
Their dad, hopefully without realizing it, had in a way forced Sam to choose, he or Dean. The only thing Dean could process about that was how the hell could he do that to the kid? How could he lay yet one more thing on Sam, on both of them? Just when had John Winchester become one of the things Dean protected Sam from? Their father wasn't supposed to be on the list of things Sam needed shielding from. But he had become just that to the point Sam often said to Dean their father did nothing but shove Sam off on his older brother. It was something totally different Dean saw now, something completely, totally different, Dean could see now after thinking it through, it'd happened so long ago he couldn't even remember it not being that way.
John had never been a physically abusive parent, though if anyone could have provoked him into it, it would have been Sam and his mouth. Dean couldn't deny John loved his children, or hadn't tried his best, but loving and showing were two different things. Dean understood, always understood his father just didn't have it left in him to leave himself open like that again. Risk losing so much again. It was exactly that which put John and Sam at odds, and Dean forever in the middle, between them. Guarding Sam from their father, sometimes to the point of standing between them, physically forcing Sam behind him and away. The funniest part was, as soon as Dean got in there, both loud, belligerent little brother and pissy, louder father backed off, backed down. Dean had taken another approach, not getting the outright affection and approval he craved from his father, he'd poured what was never given to him into his brother.
Dean was beginning to understand.
Waking with a start, when had he fallen asleep, and for how long? Dean sat up, shaking his head and rubbing his face. He felt much better, still not completely normal, but far better than he had when he'd come back to the room. Time to go. Not finding Craven anywhere, Dean scribbled a note of thanks before picking up his keys and a package of what he suspected was left over strata left for him in the refrigerator.
Sliding into his car, Dean caught site of his father's journal on the passenger seat. Sam would never have left it there. He had a vague recollection of having it with him in the bar, so Concha must have put it there, knowing Dean would see it. Picking it up, back out of the car in the same movement, he intended to put it in the trunk, be on his way. He stopped as he was about to push closed the car trunk. Like father, like son. Dean stared at the journal for a few seconds. He almost always had his dad's journal. Sam would read it, look things up, always, always returning it to Dean. Eyes sweeping the trunk for his own journal, Dean knew before he did it the act was fruitless. His journal wasn't in the trunk. It was almost never in the trunk unless Sam's duffel was in there too. Dean's journal lived, pretty exclusively, in Sam's duffel bag, or with Sam's books, or in his laptop case. He'd seen Sam reading it for no real reason on more than one occasion. How was it Dean never really noticed this before? Why was it Sam had Dean's journal, he wasn't really any more organized than Dean was about their hunting supplies?
Giving it one final glance before quietly closing the trunk, Dean climbed back into the car, driving away deep in thought.
He couldn't go back yet, he had a few things he needed straightened in his head, and it seemed when one got that way three more questions popped up to take its place. Really not helpful. He drove around for a bit, but not wanting to go too far from their apartment Dean opted to park, and walk around campus. There were plenty of interesting things to see and do, mindless things. Crowds he could get lost in, no one would bother him, and he could put it all together. Making sure to leave the Impala where it would be easily seen, if Sam was looking, and he probably was, Dean knew Sam would take that for what it was. Dean hadn't really gone anywhere, was just in a want to be alone mood. It wasn't the best, he knew he should at least call Sam, but he didn't have it in him right now to hear the hurt in his brother's voice, or the anger. He didn't have it in him right now to face the horrible thing he'd done.
So he wandered around. Thinking as he went into this place or that, he should get Sam to come back with him later, he'd like these places, these things. When they'd first arrived Dean wondered what on earth he'd do while Sam studied. He'd found there was plenty to occupy him, and he'd done almost as much of the studying as Sam. He discovered he enjoyed the college town. Sam only went out to explore when Dean coaxed him along. Sam, the poor kid, never really seemed to fit in anywhere, and Dean was like some kind of human chameleon, adjusting to any setting, almost thriving on the challenge of it all.
Which brought him right back to thoughts of how many times had Sam blindly followed Dean into a situation or a place simply on Dean's say so? The same thing Sam often accused Dean of doing, having blind faith in their father. Like father, like son. Yet Sam repeated the same actions without thought for Dean. He might argue, or question the whole way, but he'd follow Dean wherever Dean asked him to go. Why? Dean had to ask again, but he didn't really, he knew that answer. Sam trusted him. Sam believed in him.
The sun was low in the sky when he stopped at one of the exhibits the students put together. He'd been to several, usually they were pretty cool things. This one didn't disappoint, he made a mental note to bring Sam back, he'd enjoy this very much. Dean wandered through. The theme for this particular exhibit was medieval weapons. There were replicas, artwork involving the different pieces and a few authentic ones. Each display had plenty to read on the history, folklore, whatever on the different weapons. Dean knew plenty about weapons, but only recently discovered how interesting the history of what were tools of his trade really was. If he ever got a hobby, this might be it. Sam would enjoy the art and history parts of the exhibit.
Sam knew about weapons too, but he didn't like them. They didn't hold the interest or reverence they did for Dean. Sam could use them, care for them just as well as Dean, but that was as far as it went for Sam. Having learned the same lessons from their father as Dean, the difference was what Dean flourished in Sam despised. Somehow, along the path through childhood, that became a character flaw from John's point of view. Their father loved Sam, but didn't like what he was, or more to the point what he wouldn't become. John always wanted Sam to be something he simply couldn't be. Dean could see now, it made a difference to their father in a deep down fundamental way. Sam felt it, sensed it, he had to. It made a difference to Sam too. Even up to the time Dean and Sam found their father Sam expressed to his brother his fears of John's rejection.
Funny, even after several years apart neither brother feared, or even thought of the other's rejection. Dean knew, because they'd discussed it, Sam always felt a call to Dean would be answered. Sam would never be rejected, or pushed aside for something else. Dean knew the same of Sam. He knew the comfort of that sort of security, they both did, from each other. Like father, like son. Well, until a few days, and a hundred-eight calls ago Sam knew. Now, Dean reasoned, the kid probably wasn't so sure. He'd fix that.
Dean's final stop before home was a diner, they had the best pie. He and Sam both loved a good piece of pie. While he waited for his order to be completed Dean's mind filled with other thoughts, twenty-three years of memories. Twenty-three years caring for someone, being the center of their world. Twenty-three years of skinned knees and secrets only the two of them shared, twenty-three years of learning to ride bikes, and shoot crossbows, how to send off a vengeful spirit, and still do your homework. Twenty-three years of first dates, and broken hearts, of always being the new kid in school, learning to shave and catch a ball. Twenty-three years…..ok, year sixteen had been a moody bundle of irritation….Dean smiled, that part hadn't actually changed, Sam was still a moody bundle of irritation, he wondered when that phase would pass. Twenty-three years of a smile that not only lit up a room, but Dean's soul as well. Twenty-three years and Sam had paid him back how? With a love and loyalty the depths of which Dean realized he might never see the bottom of.
It was a short drive back to the parking lot in front of their apartment. Armed with strata, and two pies, Dean sat in the car, stared up at the dark windows. Sam had made a choice, what choice would Dean have made? He knew the answer, it popped into his head the minute he'd thought up the question. What would he have done, if it were Sam who'd been in that coma? Their father, Dean knew, would have been more likely to tell Dean what he was up to. Dean would have been more likely to listen, but that didn't change anything.
Then Dean got real honest, deep down, hard core honest with himself. He knew what his choice would have been.
Taking the steps two at a time, Dean slipped quietly into the apartment. It was dark, the only light coming from Sam's laptop. Sam was at the table, hunched over, arms sprawled out and cheek against one forearm. He'd fallen asleep there. He also must have gotten very little the last few days or he'd have woken up by now. Setting down his packages, Dean opened the refrigerator, taking a quick scan. It pretty much looked like it had when he'd left, so he reasoned Sam hadn't eaten much either. Moving the computer out of the way, closing it quietly Dean reached out with one hand, about to move Sam's bangs away from his face. He pulled back at the last second, fingers curling in on themselves. He'd quite likely scare the daylights out of the kid and get punched. Which he deserved.
In the next second he decided to hell with it, resting his hand lightly on Sam's head. "Sam." He kept his voice low. "Sammy." Dean couldn't help but notice how Sam, even asleep, wore a scared expression.
Sam grumbled, then flinched upright. He blinked at Dean for a minute, still mostly asleep, confused. Grabbing him under one arm, Dean pulled him straighter in the chair. Sam looked at him, frowned for a second more before realization set in.
"Dean?" He swallowed hard. "Are you ok?"
"Yeah." Straightening, Dean moved to the counter. "Have you eaten anything?"
Sam shrugged, which meant no. He pulled the pies, out, grabbed some plates, fully aware the entire time Sam's eyes followed his every move.
"I'm sorry." Sam stuttered out. "I did that to you, and I didn't know where you were or if something happened….and I'm sorry when I took off on you. It was the meanest thing I ever did to you and I'm sorry."
Completely not expecting that, Dean half turned, arched one eyebrow and wondered how to respond. He didn't know what to say, so he said the first thing that came to mind. "I couldn't remember if my favorite was blueberry and yours was peach, or if mine is peach and yours is blueberry. So I got both." He moved Sam's books from the table, replacing them with plates of pie. "And get this, Craven, he cooks. This stuff is awesome." He put the strata, after warming it, in front of Sam.
Sam just sat and stared at him like he'd grown another head or two and lost his mind. Maybe he had.
