They don't talk on the way back to the motel. They don't need to, the tension crackling between them is saying quite enough.

Sam turns his phone on just for something to do and winces when it beeps at him. Thirty voicemails, more missed calls than that. Crap, they were going to catch hell for not checking in. Sam doesn't even want to think about what Mer must have felt or gone through. Fuck, dealing with this is not going to be fun or easy.

Dean pulls up in front of the room and cuts the engine. The sudden silence feels intimate and close; Sam is acutely aware of Dean's breathing and the nervous rub of his hands over his jeans.

"Today sucked," Dean mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Yeah." Sam grins wryly and ducks his head cause...yeah. It really, really did. In fact, he's ready to declare this whole week a wash. He starts when Dean's hand settles on his arm, firm and warm.

"Let's go, Sammy." Dean squeezes once and climbs out of the car, Sam right behind him. Sam feels...giddy. Nervous. Excited. Scared out of his mind. Things are changing, they're finally ready to talk about this. All it took were a couple brushes with death and a psycho religious chick. The irony was not lost on him.

When he gets into the room, Dean is standing between the two beds staring into space.

"Dean?" Sam asks. Dean slowly turns around to face him and his eyes are hot embers in the low light, smoldering. Dean lets his mask slip and Sam can read everything. Arousal snakes though him, makes his breathing hitch and his eyes dilate.

Dean licks his lips. It has no business being as hot as it is. He smirks, then opens his mouth and Sam's phone rings. Wicked blares and Sam sees Dean pull away, the shutters coming down with a bang. Dean holds his hand out for the phone and Sam gives it over without complaint. Better Dean than him.

Dean stares at the screen for a moment, then clears his throat and connects the call.

"Hello?" Dean frowns. "Hello?"

"YOU FUCKERS!" Sam winces, because he can hear Whitney's voice from across the room, angry and strident. Dean yanked the phone away from his ear. "YOU...I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU—" Whit makes a strangled, cat-like sound that conveys more eloquently than anything the depth of her anger.

"Whit, how's--"

"Shut up, Dean," Whit hisses, and her anger is a tangible force in the room, dark and violent. Dean swallows, and his eyes find Sam's.

"You're okay?" Whit asks, her voice shaking around the edges.

"Yeah Whit. I'm...I'm fine."

Silence. They can hear her start to speak several times, but she never does, just snaps her teeth together with a click and breathes harshly into the phone.

"Is Sam there?" she finally growls.

"Y-yeah, Whit," Dean hastens to assure her. He puts the phone on speaker.

"I'm here," Sam says, wincing at how timid his voice comes out. She's silent again, the seconds ticking away. Both of them hold still and breathe lightly, as if that will make her forget they're there. It doesn't work.

"You are both," she says, words bitten off and tight, "the scummiest scum that has ever existed on the face of this Earth. You do not deserve her you selfish, pathetic, undeserving excuse for a father." Dean flinches at that, the color draining from his face. Sam reaches out to comfort him, but Dean shies away.

"Is she—?"

"You do not get to talk!" Whit snaps, and Dean's lips press together so tight they almost disappear. Sam bristles; he wants to snatch the phone away and rip into Whitney as effectively as she's ripping into Dean, but he holds himself back.

"Are you listening to me?" Whit demands.

"Yes," Dean says curtly.

"This is what you are going to do. You are going to get into that death trap you call a car. You are going to break every speed limit and every law to get here as soon as possible. You will not pass Go, you will not collect two hundred dollars, and you will be prepared to grovel at your daughter's feet and be happy she loves you more than anything in this world and will forgive you for what you did! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?" Dean's eyes are glassy, but he doesn't let the tears fall. "Do you—"

"Yes. I understand." Dean sounds absolutely miserable.

"SAM!" Sam jerks up and stares at the phone.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Do you understand?" Whit's voice tells him he'd better fucking understand or he'll regret it.

"I—I, yes. Yes, I under—"

"Good." And then she's hung up and the call length flashes up at them. Dean throws the phone at Sam and stalks over to his bags. They haven't actually unpacked, and it's a matter of moments before they're both in the car.

This time, the tension feels stifling and stale.

****

"Missouri called. Says they're fine." John stares blankly at Bobby before swallowing and nodding. Sam's message still plays on a loop in his head; he doesn't think he'll forget the thinly veiled desperation in Sam's voice any time soon.

"You should call 'em," Bobby tells him. Instead of answering, John gets up and gets the bottle of whisky out of the cupboard. He ignores his friend's darkly muttered, "Idjit must be genetic."

Bobby lets him be for a while, for which John is thankful. It's not going to last much longer, but John can set about getting blissfully drunk before Bobby calls him on it.

"You plannin' on sharing?" Bobby asks after John's demolished half the bottle of whisky and doesn't look like he plans to stop.

"Depends," John grunts. The world shifts to the left and John slides with it. He blinks and finds himself staring at Bobby's scuffed shoes. He carefully turns his head and looks up up up at his friend's face, which is way far up there. And kind of blurry. In fact, Bobby looks like a floating beard. That's frowning. Do beards frown?

"What the hell are you translating up there, Winchester?" Bobby asks, shaking his head. He hasn't seen John this intent on obliteration in many a year. He's also never known John to insist on doing his own research and translating, especially the long-dead languages that Bobby and maybe five other people in the world are familiar with. Bobby keeps trying to figure out what's going on, but all he keeps coming up with is Bad.

"I can't protect 'em," John confesses. "Won't be there."

****

They don't keep track of the time. Sam spends the trip concentrating on not getting them pulled over, imagining them wrapped in a police-free cocoon. Dean doesn't say a word, doesn't put on any music, just drives.

The sun has just crested the horizon, the sky a gorgeous melding of colors that neither of them can properly appreciate, when they pull into town. Their street is stirring, people leaving for work and school, as they pull into the drive way. Dean leans his forehead against the wheel. Sam takes a leap and brushes his fingers over the back of Dean's neck, lightly kneading the muscles and reminding Dean he's here, they're together, and they'll get through this.

Dean lets Sam touch, just long enough for the world to stop spinning. When he feels up to it, he sits up, takes a deep breath, and pushes out of the car. Time to face the music.

Whit opens the door and if looks could kill they'd be dead many times over. Sam feels about three feet tall. Dean can't meet her eyes. She snorts derisively and turns her back on them, walks into the kitchen and starts making herself something to drink with far more force than is necessary.

Dean stares after her for a long moment, then turns his attention to the stairs. Mer feels muffled and contained, her usually vibrant energy muted. It makes the house feel empty and unwelcoming. Dean starts making his way up the stairs, and Sam's at a loss about what to do.

"Sammy?" Sam turns around and shoots Dean a questioning look. "You comin'?" Sam knows he looks like an idiot, mouth hanging open and eyes wide with shock, but...Dean wants him in on this? He takes too long to respond, Dean's face goes blank and smooth as he turns away. Sam drops his pack with a clatter and crowds close behind Dean as they walk down the hall, making his presence known. He may be imagining it, but it looks like Dean relaxes a fraction.

They pause outside of Mer's door. Dean can't seem to bring himself to knock, so Sam does it for him, three quick raps before he can lose his nerve. No answer.

"Mer?" Dean calls, his voice breaking. He clears his throat. "Mary? Can I come in?" Still nothing. Dean sighs and lets his chin fall against his chest, eyes screwed shut.

"Mer, we'd like...we'd like to talk to you," Sam tries, and his words sound lame even to him. "To, uh, explain. And apologize." When she doesn't respond to that, Sam closes his eyes and reaches for her with his mind. He slams up against mental walls that feel insurmountable, and he hadn't even known she could do that. They feel like the coldest cold and the hottest hot, so slippery he can't find a handhold. He yanks himself back with a gasp, and Dean steadies him.

"She, uh. She's pissed," Sam says, and Dean snorts, but it lacks anything approaching humor. Dean glares at the door, and Sam can tell he's thinking about just breaking it down, which would not be a good idea. "I have an idea."

He reaches out and settles his hand around Dean's neck. Not because he needs the contact; more because he wants it. Dean stares at him, and for a second everything drifts away and it's just them, together. Sam smiles, concentrates, and pushes his mind lightly into Dean's. Dean's eyes widen in response and he pushes back.

Good.

Sam...he kind of twines them together, looping over Dean and around him. Dean lets him, watching Sam spin them around one another, creating a helix of connection. When Sam is satisfied he turns them towards Mer. They keep their thoughts gentle and contrite, letting their love and apology speak for themselves. Sam wraps them around the tightly shielded ball of emotions that makes up Mer; doesn't try to infringe, just lets the truth of their feelings seep through her shields, asks her to talk to them, forgive them.

They fall into the room when Mer opens the door. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and her nose is shiny. She's wearing one of Dean's sweatshirts and it completely swallows her. She crawls onto her bed, curling into the smallest ball she can.

It fucking breaks their hearts, watching her curl around Mer Bear, fur matted with tears.

Dean crawls into bed and wraps his arms around her, pulling his daughter to his chest. Sam hesitates a moment, long enough for Dean to send him a sharp mental whack. Sam slides into the other side of the bed and runs his fingers through Mer's hair. She lets out a shuddering breath, her entire body shaking.

"Mer," Dean whispers, his voice thick. She shakes her head and buries her face in Mer Bear's stomach.

"I'm sorry, baby girl. So very, very sorry," Dean whispers. His eyes are screwed shut, but a tear leaks out. Sam reaches out and tangles his fingers with Dean over Mer's back. "Didn't mean it. Couldn't...sorry. Sorry sorry sorry." Dean lets some of his fear and worry leak out between them, not enough to overwhelm, just enough that they can both taste the depth of his reactions to almost dying.

Sam adds his own feelings—his determination not to let Dean die, how focused he had to be to make that happen, his anger, fear, love for his family.

He and Dean are pretty far into their pity party when they realize Mer has slowly started to loosen up, is letting them slide in under her shields again. They get flashes from her: the searing pain of Dean's electrocution; Whitney's terrified face as Mer screamed on the floor; her attempts to call Dean, then Sam after they realized Dean's cellphone was fried; Dean's subsequent revival, but at a terrible cost; the feeling of Sam, a pillar of her network, suddenly pulling away, Dean doing the same. She was so very, very scared and alone.

Sam feels like a complete ass. He hadn't realized how much Mer relied on him as a grounding point. Dean, yeah, but him? It startles him that he's as much apart of Mer's mental foundation as Dean. And he was more important than Whitney, which didn't make sense because she had always been there. Why...how? Sam gets yanked out of his thoughts when Dean's finger's tightening painfully around his, and he opens his eyes to meet Dean's wet gaze.

"You're blood, you idiot," Dean says without rancor. Sam is completely dumbfounded, though he shouldn't be because it's always about the blood. Whit doesn't have an iota of supernatural talent in her, so Mer can't connect with her quite the way Sam and Dean can. And Mer puts Sam almost on par with Dean. And Dean is cool with that. Actually, he's kind of relieved and really happy about it. Sam closes his eyes and tries to wrangle his emotions into some kind of discernible order, because right now they're a tangled mess.

Since this is a night of revelations, and he's already had several, the fact that Mer has two dads doesn't pack quite the punch it could. And it's so stupidly true he can't believe he hasn't seen it earlier. When he finally opens his eyes, they're both watching him intently.

And Sam smiles, and lets his acceptance wash over them. Mer's happy contentment blooms between them. They're not naïve enough to assume she's alright—not by a long shot, she's going to make them pay, Sam can feel it in his bones—but she's at least forgiven them for now. And it's enough.

They fall asleep on the bed, the three of them in the early morning light.

****

Dean wakes up because his daughter is staring at him, her emotions sliding over his skin and burrowing under it. Her anger prickles, but her joy at having him back sings just beneath that, soothing the sting.

"Mer-Bear?" he mumbles, voice sleep rough. Mer frowns at him, narrows her eyes dangerously. "What—" Her tiny hand darts out and she grabs his chin and brings their faces close together. Dean has no idea what's going on.

"No leave me again!" Mer commands, each word punctuated by a shake of his head. Dean's trying to get past the bad grammar of that sentence—something that rarely slips out in Mer's speech, but when it does it's jarring—and her complete seriousness. Her baby-face is schooled into a deep frown, and if she were older she might look harsh and angry but she can't pull it off because her baby-fat makes her features too round and angelic.

She thinks he takes too long to answer because she shakes his head again, and even if her face can't pull of hard anger, her eyes glint with it.

"Yeah," Dean promises hoarsely. "I promise. Never again." Mer studies him, and he feels her ping him to test the truth of his words. And that hurts just as much as this whole stupid situation, because she's always trusted him. Her dad could do no wrong, would never lie to her. He's shattered that trust, and he'll never have it so unconditionally again.

Growing up sucks.

----

Sam and Dean tread lightly the next day, acutely aware of how much they fucked up. Whit stays out of their way, but whenever she catches sight of them her face darkens and they don't need freaky powers to tell that she is pissed. They cook her favorite foods for lunch, but she stays in her room and ignores the plate they leave by her door.

They take Mer out for ice cream and to the park as a part of their extended apology. She sticks close to them, touches them both a lot, and outdoes Dean with the mental check-ins. Dean returns every single one with patient penitence.

They all try to ignore the gaping hole at the dinner table that night. Dean resigns himself to buying several stores' worth of candy and flowers and signing contracts in blood to appease Whit. Sam must catch his thought because he snorts and shoots Dean and amused look. They both appreciate the irony.

They also don't try to trundle Mer off to bed as soon as the clock hits 8. They let her stay up, snuggled between them on the couch, eyes drooping. Sam's arm is draped along the back, and his fingers brush against the back of Dean's neck. Dean has his hand curved protectively around Mer, but he invariably grazes the edge of Sam's thighs. Those are the only two places they touch, but it feels intimate and Dean is hyper aware of everything Sam. A nervous tension crackles between them.

Dean finally decides it's time to tuck Mer into bed when she slumps forward and he has to catch her before she falls off the couch. Sam helps ease her into his arms and they both make their way to her room. She protests a little when they tuck her in. Dean slides Mer Bear into her arms and kisses her softly on the head, letting his emotions buffet gently against her, and she settles into sleep with a sigh. Sam does the same thing, wondering at how completely this tiny life has changed his world.

Dean watches his daughter sleep, and Sam can feel how hard it is for him to imagine leaving her, of dying and not getting to watch his daughter grow up. He wants to be there for everything, and even though that's not possible with the life they've chosen, Sam will damn well try to make sure Dean at least gets to see the important stuff.