Disclaimer: Still own nothing.
Author's Note: Told ya I'd try to update more! This is for all of you who just can't take the tension between Dean and Tessa anymore...read on!
They didn't arrive until late, nearly two in the morning, a time that made it a bit difficult to find an open hotel, let alone one with enough rooms to accommodate them all. Luckily, everyone was exhausted enough to give in easily when John gave out the room assignments: Winchesters in 101, Singers in 104. No argument.
The Singers lucked out. Bobby had had enough of John and his tense mood about two hours into their ride. And Tate, while he did get a kick out of driving the Impala, because really he'd always wanted to take that beauty for a spin, nothing was worth the constant sibling bickering and endless whining. Needless to say, those two managed to fall into a restful sleep the minute their heads hit the pillows.
As for the others, well…
"Dad, c'mon, you can't just say no to something and not tell us why," begins the conversation, Sam not being able to keep his mouth shut any longer than five minutes after entering the room with his family. "I mean, if this guy's dangerous…"
"He is," John counters sharply in that end-of-discussion way of his.
"So you've heard of him?" he asks. "You know him?"
No response.
"Dad?"
Again, John remains quiet, his only movements the simple removal of his shoes and socks, and a .22 from his duffel that he places under the pillow, a basic nighttime ritual. It's clear that he doesn't want to talk, doesn't intend to, but Sam continues to push regardless. "Is he dangerous like a criminal? Or like some sort of…supernatural meddler? Or is he some kind of hunter?"
"I've never heard of him," Dean interjects, as though that fact should supply ample invalidation.
"Then what?" Sam asks, fatigue weighing his voice as he scrubs at his eyes with tight fists. "Dad, we're going to go see this guy tomorrow. If there's something we should know about him, don't you think…"
"He's a demon," he blurts out in measured tone, eyes closed as he reclines in the bed.
Dean's eyes open as wide as they can through the strain of no sleep when he says, "A what now?" And suddenly all eyes are on him as though he'd said the stupidest thing in the world.
"He's an antiques dealer." Tessa's voice is quiet, almost unheard, certainly unreadable, from the corner where she sits.
John doesn't move, doesn't rise, but his lids flutter lazily open as he says, "Yeah, well…" followed by a dramatic sigh. "He's one of the Fallen, not really a demon per se, but close enough."
Sam cocks his head to one side and squints in confusion. "The Fallen as in the Fallen? Like from thousands of years ago?"
"How d'ya think he manages to find all those antiques?"
"So that makes him a bad guy," Dean mutters, almost a question.
"It makes him someone with not a lot to lose. And a shit load of friends in…low places."
"So what does this mean?" Sam poses delicately. "I mean, as far as going out there tomorrow, meeting with him…"
"He's an antiques dealer," comes from the corner yet again, this time a bit louder, bit more terse. "He's a business man."
"Uh, yeah," Dean offers bitterly, "and what kind of business is that exactly? 'Cause I'm pretty sure it ain't our kind."
She glances over at him, still and calm, while he fumes, the mere idea of speaking to a near demon seemingly too much to handle for him. "He knows something. Or he might," she says plainly. "And I want to know what that is."
"At what cost?"
"Dean," John warns, rising to a sitting position, facing his children for the first time all day. "You're sister's right, much as I want to deny it, much as I don't want to get involved with someone like him, she's right. He's a businessman, and he wouldn't have made it this far without being found out if he didn't understand how to treat people. Just meeting him shouldn't be a problem."
"But," he goes on, a hint of petulance to his voice, "you're the one who said it was too dangerous."
"Because I'd really rather he not know us, or anything about us, just in case."
Sam narrows his eyes at his father. "In case of what?"
"In case…look, he's powerful, because of his position, he's got a lot of pull…" He struggles to find the right words, shakes his head absently, lets out a deep breath. "This isn't exactly laying low. If something does happen, Heaven and Hell colliding on Earth kind of something…well, I'd rather my family not be involved." He leans back again, turns to face the door, trains his eyes on the thick line of salt at its base, checks the window for the same. "Seems like we're in it no matter what I want," he mumbles, almost to himself.
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John hasn't slept in over twenty years, not really, not wholly. He's always on guard, always ready with a finger on the trigger even while resting his eyes. Especially with his children in the room, all three positioned behind him, away from the door, him being a barricade should something pop in.
And they all know this, know that their father could always hear, even if not fully comprehending, every word spoken after lights out, every breath taken and move made in the dark. Which is how certain activities had been perfected. Like reading in the pitch black of night so that he wouldn't get angry at them for perusing books when they should be sleeping, or passing notes when they shouldn't be talking. Sam was the best at that, even managing to perfect the most silent and unobtrusive page turning technique known to man.
And there was always finding a way to simply move in the middle of the night, whether to check on someone or something, or merely go and take a piss. Dean was the master of that. For a man of his size and strength, he could move as delicately as a ballerina, nearly gliding over the floor as opposed to walking on it, when rising in the dark.
Which is exactly what he does now in this musty old motel room, moving seamlessly over to his open bag, digging quickly and quietly through, trained eyes and fingertips finding the tiny parcel with no trouble what so ever. His stride is just as quick and restrained as it always had been in the dark, as she'd always remembered it to be, when he approaches her.
She doesn't say a word, talking prohibited at a time like this. The three of them have other ways to communicate, ways that wouldn't give them away to any sort of danger lurking in the shadows. Ways that simply wouldn't wake their father, earning them a stern warning about not being on their toes come the morning.
Normally, getting in the face of a Winchester at four a.m. would be a dangerous if not down right lethal endeavor, all of them being on edge enough to wake with a defensive move before even really coming to. But Tessa was already awake, dull pain in her side and a more distant ache in her heart precluding her from sleep.
And Dean knew that. Because no matter how quietly she cried – through the years she had managed to perfect that steady stream of silent tears (being the only girl in a family full of men while moving through puberty will do that to a person) – he always knew when his siblings were in pain. Like when Sam dreamt about Jess in the days and weeks following her death, and Dean never said a word during the night, never woke him from the tossing and turning, or offered him sweet assurances when he woke in tears and cold sweat. Because Sam would only deny that anything was wrong, would try to deny everything about the dreams, and the memories.
But that didn't mean that Dean didn't know, didn't mean that he didn't go many sleepless nights, lying in bed across the way from his brother as he struggled with his conscience and his grief.
Just as he knew Tessa was doing right now.
She looks at him through tear-filled eyes as he kneels down in front her, beside the bed, and she's careful not to move, not wanting to wake Sam who slumbers next to her. But she does manage to give him a stern look complete with a dramatic roll of the eyes. Leave me alone, I'm fine, God, it clearly says.
And he responds with an insolent eye roll of his own. Yeah right.
She raises one eyebrow, swiveling her head a bit into the pillow. What? What do you want?
He looks down, sadly almost, perhaps embarrassed. When his eyes meet hers again they've gone a bit hazy, green irises soaking up enough moonlight to allow her to see them more clearly, see what is in them more clearly. Shame. And regret. And fear.
And because no words are needed between them, she knows exactly what this means. He's sorry for what he said, about Ben. He's sorry that it caused her pain, that it only made things worse. But he's not sorry for implying that he may have been bad news, because in doing so he was only trying to look out for her. Because he was terrified to lose her.
Everything he'd said about Ben was just a reaction to that. This much she knows because, buried back deep, as though he's trying to keep it hidden, there's a look in his eyes she's seen a hundred times before: guilt.
It wasn't his fault, not any of it. But it's his job to protect Sam and Tess, always has been, always will be. No matter what. No matter if he's there or not, if he's actually able to do anything or not. It's his job, and that night he failed.
He blamed Sam for not intervening sooner, for knowing something was going on and not doing anything about it. He blamed Tessa for even being there in the first place, not listening to him when he decided that Ben wasn't good enough for her, for whatever reason. And, yeah, he blamed Ben, because he had been the one wielding the knife.
But all along, he knew. He knew that laying blame like that was just an easy way out of his own guilt. He knew that if he hurt his sister's feelings, made her angry enough to lash out, at least when he'd look at her he'd see something other than the little kid he couldn't keep safe, the little sister he almost lost.
And he knew, whether he would ever admit it in words or not, that Ben never would have harmed a hair on Tessa's head, not without being pushed to an extreme, not without a fight. He had loved her, Dean could see that in his eyes, in his mere demeanor, during every meeting they'd ever had. And while he never really trusted Ben, because baggage doesn't begin to cover what he was carrying around, he never actually thought him capable of hurting Tess either.
Which is why he pocketed the ring, grabbed it off the dresser after seeing Tessa tentatively remove it.
She had stood there in her bedroom, assuming she was alone, for nearly five minutes. Stood and simply stared at the sparkling diamond, the polished gold. And he watched, saw, even from behind, how much she wanted to pick it back up, place it once more on her finger.
But too much had happened, too much had changed, and after several minutes of debating, she seemed to have made up her mind, turning quickly and gliding out of the room, leaving the ring among other odds and ends she had no desire to pack up and take with her.
Only he knew better.
She gazes at her brother for a moment, studies his face in the moonlight, the worried creases she doesn't remember being there even months ago. The thick bags under his eyes that could be from lack of sleep, or an abundance of unshed tears.
Knowing what he's feeling now, what he's saying, here in the dark where only she can hear, Tessa reaches out her hand to his shoulder and gives a tight squeeze. It's okay. I understand.
But before she can pull away, he takes her hand in his, unfolds her long, lean fingers, and drops that ring in the center of her palm, squeezing her hand shut around it.
