Chapter 21 Undertow
May 30, 2000. Sedona, Arizona.
Sam looked around the moving throng of students, teachers, families and friends, searching for his father and brother. The ceremony would be starting in ten minutes and he couldn't see them, couldn't even see the car or the truck in the parking lot. He felt his heart sink.
"Where're your folks, Sam?" Tammy Miller looked up at him curiously, pushing her auburn hair back from her face with one hand. Sam shrugged, turning away, heading back to the stands where they'd be sitting until it was time to get their diplomas.
Why was he surprised? Upset? Feeling anything at all? He should be so used to this. This was classic Winchester family behaviour. It was a school thing. Therefore, unimportant. Just his graduation. What the hell. Dean had actually laughed about not having to go to his, since he'd dropped out six months early to hunt with Dad.
This was one of the reasons they'd spent the last two months here, in Sedona. So that the school could get all the results from the thousands of schools he'd attended over the years in one place and decide if he'd actually be able to graduate. Of course the other – more important – reason was that his father needed to do some research. Huh.
He hunched over his seat, staring out at his classmates, surrounded by their families, in most cases by all of their families it looked like, and their friends, everyone laughing and smiling, everyone dressed in their best … everyone living a normal life.
Oh. Except him.
He walked up the steps to the porch and put his key in the lock. The house was a rental, but it had three bedrooms, and two bathrooms, which had made living here a lot more pleasant than most of their accommodation, especially their recent accommodation. The hallway was dim and cool, and he went straight to his room, dumping his books and bag on the floor and flopping on to the bed.
Twenty minutes later he heard the screen door slam, and the heavy stomp of boots in the hall.
"Sammy? You home?" Dean's voice called out. He ignored it, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. He felt entitled to sulk for a few hours. If he thought it would do any good. Chances were, no one would notice. He sighed.
His bedroom door opened and his unwilling glance at the sound showed his brother standing in the doorway, a bottle of beer in one hand, one brow lifted questioningly. "Lost the ability to speak?"
Sam grunted in response.
"Dad's gone down to Phoenix. He'll be back in a week or so. What do you want for dinner?" Dean propped himself against the doorway.
Sam sat up slowly, feeling a slow burn starting in his chest. "Oh, he went down to Phoenix today? So today he just decided to go? And what's your excuse?"
Dean looked at him, brows drawing together. "What are you talking about?"
"Graduation. I'm talking about graduation. Which I did. Today."
A guilty expression flashed across his brother's face, almost too quick to see. "Crap, that was today? Gee, man, I'm sorry, I just totally forgot."
Sam turned away. "Yeah. You and Dad. What convenient memories you both have."
"Come on, Sammy, it's not like they handed you a Nobel Prize or anything. Most people graduate from high school." He looked at his brother's back. "How 'bout we go out tonight? You know, celebrate? I'll buy the booze."
"No." Sam closed his eyes.
Dean walked into the room and around the bed, looking at his brother's mulish expression. "Lighten up, Sam, okay? It's been a crappy day."
"Just go away."
Dean looked at him for a long moment, then he shrugged. "Yeah, okay."
He turned abruptly and walked out of the room and Sam heard him rummaging around the kitchen for a few minutes, then silence, then the TV was turned on.
So much for family and brotherly love, he thought sourly.
Dean sprawled across the couch, his boots hanging off the arm, technically not on the couch itself. He was facing the TV, his eyes were open, but he wasn't watching it. Barely even taking in the images that flashed across the screen, the sounds that came from the speakers.
He was reliving the fight with his father. The fight that happened two hours ago, in Prescott. Reliving it in glorious Technicolor with Dolby DTS surround sound. Not the whole thing, just the highlights, those standout moments that echo around the brain forever.
"Dad, come on, this thing, what you're learning, what you've found out, it's eating you alive, you need help, let me help you," he'd pleaded, looking at the grim expression on his father's face, the lines that had become etched there since last year, maybe longer, he couldn't tell anymore.
"You can't help me!" His father's voice, cracking, hoarse. His father's face, twisting in revulsion, his eyes dark with some emotion that Dean couldn't decipher. The next second that expression, that was seared into his brain, was gone, and John's face was cold and hard and unyielding. "I don't want your help, Dean. I don't need your help."
He'd turned away, before his father saw the pain, the denial felt as if it had left a handprint across his face.
"Get back to Sedona, look after your brother. Stay with him, Dean. You make damned sure that the two of you stay together, that's your job. That's what you can help me with."
He'd nodded, and left, and the conversation – the fight – the repulsion – had played over and over again in his head the whole drive back, and here it was again now, effortlessly overriding tonight's programming to make him feel like … like … nothing … again.
He finished the beer and took the bottle to the kitchen, chucking it into the trash can on the way to the refrigerator to get another. Glancing in the direction of Sam's room, he wondered if he should try again with his brother, but if he was really, really honest with himself, he couldn't face any more rejections today.
He walked back to the living room and opened the beer, hungry now, but without any motivation to do anything about it. He stretched out on the couch again and tried to watch the TV, tried to drown out the voices in his head.
May 31, 2000
Sam woke early, before dawn. He dressed quickly and moved silently around his bedroom, packing up what he needed, what he wanted to take. He had six hundred dollars, accumulated slowly from summer jobs, odd jobs, a little pool hustling with his brother, and that would keep him well enough until he could find a job, earn some steady money. He peeled a hundred from the roll, put it into his pocket, and tucked the rest into a sock in his duffle.
Picking the bag up, he opened his door slowly enough that it didn't creak, and looked cautiously up and down the hall. Dean's room was on the other side, a little way up. He debated checking to see if he was there, asleep, then decided against it. His brother was already too well-trained to miss the sound of a door close to him opening, and would almost certainly wake. Grabbing his sneakers, he walked down the hall instead.
Next to the front door, he put the sneakers on, tying the laces quickly and looked around the house once more. It was quiet and still. With his father away, Dean likely to sleep for another couple of hours at least and he wasn't going to get a better time or opportunity. Taking the jacket from the coat rack beside the door, he pulled it on. He opened the door and slipped out, closing it quietly behind him.
He walked down the road to the end of the cul de sac, then crossed the scrubby land and sparse woods that lay between the end of the road and route 89A. He climbed up to the shoulder and starting walking north, the sky brilliantly lit overhead as the sun rose, the air fresh and clean. He felt excited and scared at the same time. Running away at seventeen, what a joke. The mocking thought made him smile.
He'd walked about two miles when a truck pulled over beside him. As he slowed and glanced in through the wound-down window, he recognised Milo Haventz, he'd played a little soccer with his son over the last month. Milo recognised him as well.
"You need a lift, Sam?" The rancher leaned out of his window. "Going up to Flagstaff."
"Yeah, thanks Mr Haventz, that's where I'm headed."
"Jump in."
Sam tossed the duffle into the tray and climbed in the passenger side. Too easy, just too easy.
It was only thirty miles to Flagstaff, and when Sam got out of the truck, waving to Milo as he pulled away, the sun had only just crested the horizon. He looked at his watch, registering the time with a laugh. Six-forty. Dean still wouldn't be awake for another hour at the earliest. And he was already here. He grinned and walked down the street, stopping at a diner and ordering himself breakfast.
Dean woke up slowly, gradually. The curtains were tightly shut and the light filtered in dimly, filling the room with soft shadows. At first, while he stretched out, everything seemed okay. Then he remembered.
He rolled over, staring at the wall opposite. And he could feel, in that point between his shoulders, an ache, the first knot of tension that promised a headache by the end of the day, by the end of the morning, maybe.
He got up, pulling his clothes randomly from the floor, the end of the bed and the top of the dresser that stood next to the window, and got dressed. As he walked past Sam's room, he veered closer and gave the door a quick hammering.
"Come on, Sammy, get up."
He kept walking, down to the kitchen, filling the coffee pot, turning it on, picking up the empty beer bottles from the table in the living room and dropping them in the trash, setting out two clean cups on the counter.
Watching the coffee dripping into the glass jug for a while, Zenning out on the regular drip-drip, it was a few minutes before he realised he hadn't heard a sound from his brother's room. He let out a loud exhale in frustration and walked back up the stairs to Sam's door, leaning on it as he hammered on it again.
The only response he got was complete silence, and he felt a prickle raise the hairs on the back of his neck. He opened the door.
At first, it all looked the same. The bed was made, neatly, because that was Sam. There was nothing on the floor, ditto Sam. Then his attention sharpened and he realised that the books that filled the two shelves above the desk were gone. The jacket that hung over a knob on the dresser was gone. He walked into the room and pulled out the drawers of the dresser. Empty. All of them. He looked around, opening the wardrobe door. Empty. Where there should have been shoes, and shirts and jeans hanging up neatly, there was nothing.
He turned around slowly, his eyes narrowing as he took in the room. Nothing of Sam's was here. Nothing. The bag, the big green canvas duffle that sat at the bottom of Sam's bed, empty but zipped closed, was gone.
No. He bit his lower lip, eyes still scanning the room as if he hoped to find it had all been a temporary hallucination and everything would be back in its place if he just looked long enough. No. No. No.
He turned and left the room, striding fast back to the kitchen. Sam left another jacket on the coat rack by the front door. He looked for it. Gone.
No. No. No. No.
He wouldn't do this, he thought. Would he? Over the freaking graduation thing?
Coffee forgotten, he dragged on his boots and grabbed his keys and wallet from the hall table, slamming through the front door and the screen door fast. He was halfway down the concrete path to the street when he stopped, turning to look up and down the quiet dead-end road, understanding that he had no idea when Sam had gone, where he'd gone, why he'd gone or even how he'd gone.
His heart was racing. He could feel his pulse galloping inside his ears. Okay, stop and think about it – logically, he told himself. He'd packed everything, so obviously he hadn't been taken and he wasn't going to visit a friend. He'd meant to go, to leave. To leave them.
It didn't make him feel any better.
Would his friends know? Dean shook his head impatiently; he didn't know any of Sam's friends, so even if they did, how the hell was he supposed to find out? Hangouts, he thought. All school kids had hangouts, he just had to find one and he'd be able to get a bead on at least a couple of Sam's friends, and maybe they would know something. He turned and walked to the Impala, ignoring the voice in his head that was telling him the idea was thin, it was anorexic … it was the only idea he had, so that detail didn't matter.
He got into the car and looked at his watch. Eight-fifteen. It had been a while since he'd been at school, but he didn't remember getting to the local hangouts at that time of morning.
Didn't matter, he told himself, turning the key. He couldn't just sit in the house, waiting. He pulled out onto the street, and headed for the small downtown section of town.
It was ten forty-five when the first kids started to show up at the burger place, cars slowly filling the lot where the Impala had been conspicuously parked for the past three hours. He watched them trickle in. At least he'd picked the right place, he thought, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eyes. He got out and walked in after them, looking around the scattering of tables for kids who might look like they knew of his brother.
He saw three kids who might fit that bill, sitting together at a table by the window. He hovered by the counter, wondering exactly what to say to them. Kids clammed up if they thought one of their own was in trouble. He didn't particularly want to play the concerned big brother role either. He decided to wing it and see how it went, walking over to the table.
"Hi. Do you guys know Sam Winchester?"
The auburn-haired girl and two boys sitting at the table looked at each other, then back at him. He smiled, his I'm-a-great-guy-you-can-trust-me smile, open and friendly. The girl nodded slowly.
"Yeah, a bit."
"Uh, have you seen him around today?" Dean looked at her.
She shook her head. "He said that he was leaving town soon, with his family, so he wouldn't be able to hang out."
"Uh, he actually said 'with his family'?"
She nodded. "Yeah. Yesterday, at graduation."
"Do you know, uh, the names of any friends he had that he was close to?" He could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
The girl looked at the guy sitting next to her. "Well, we were about the only people he, like, hung out with. But you know, he wasn't here for very long, and he, um, didn't talk much about himself."
The guy nodded. "Who are you again?"
"I'm his brother," Dean told him absently, as he realised that Sam must have taken off on his own, and that led to a whole new can of worms.
"Great job with graduation yesterday then." The girl frowned at him. "He was majorly disappointed that you didn't show."
Dean looked down at her. "Yeah, well, I had to work."
"Sure. Yeah. Right," the other guy said.
Dean looked at him for a moment, just long enough that the guy started fidgeting with his cup. "Thanks."
They shrugged and turned away and he walked out, back across the parking lot to the car. So … no plans to just take off for a wild post-graduation weekend with his friends.
What did that leave him with? He knew the answer, but just couldn't believe it.
Sam had actually run away.
God, Sammy, he thought tiredly as he got into the car. What are you, eight? This is what you come up when you're pissed at us?
The thought of his father cascaded into a memory, a very recent memory. Get back to Sedona, look after your brother. Stay with him, Dean. You make damned sure that the two of you stay together, that's your job.
He leaned his head against the wheel, feeling his unease amplify into genuine worry. Ever since New Mexico, Dad had been pounding into him about the need to look after Sam, to make sure that they didn't split up, that they kept close to each other. He'd figured it was just a side effect of Sam's injuries, but now that he thought about it, even before that hunt Dad had told him not to leave Sammy alone, to stick close to him.
Something had happened while they were in White Rock, before Sam's near-fatal encounter with the spirits. Something that had scared his father so much that he'd been moving them around almost non-stop, until now. Something to do with the yellow-eyed demon that had ruled their lives by proxy since 1983. Had his father found out something? Was that why he'd been so on edge, so vehement yesterday?
So far as he knew, only one thing could scare his father. It was the same thing that scared him. He shivered in the warmth of the car. He had to find Sam. And he had to do it fast.
He pulled out the map of the area, looking over it carefully. There were only two big towns within easy reach of Sedona. Flagstaff, to the north, and Prescott, to the south. Flagstaff was much closer. Only thirty miles.
Jesus, you fucking idiot.
He started the engine and pulled out of the lot, leaving a trace of white smoke and the smell of burned rubber behind the black car. Sam could either walk or he could hitch up to Flagstaff. Both options would put him on the 89A – god, if he'd been thinking this morning, he probably could have found him along the damned road and had him back by now.
Flagstaff, Arizona.
Sam sat in the booth, eating slowly – his own pace, for once, not the rapacious speed of his brother – and reading through the local newspaper. He needed a job, and a place, something cheap, something convenient, something of his own. As he turned the pages, his eyes ran down the news and obits automatically, but nothing stood out to him, no weirdness or strange coincidence; no monsters in Flagstaff at this present time, he thought.
He made a note of three job possibilities and two cheap rentals, all within the same six block area, and set the paper aside. His phone was off, tucked into his bag and it would stay that way. He wasn't sure if this was a holiday, or if he wanted it to be permanent, not yet.
He paid for his breakfast and walked back out to the street, looking down at the addresses of the rentals. Probably needed a residence before he could apply for a job, he thought. The first one was a few blocks away, and he turned right, walking along the sidewalk into the rising sunshine, his heart light and a vague feeling of excitement buzzing along his nerves.
By eleven, he had a job and a place to live. Neither were worth writing home about, it was true, but it was the accomplishment that counted, he thought smugly as he stepped out of the manager's office, not the details. He walked out of the restaurant and onto the street, lifting his face happily to the bright sunlight.
The rental was a narrow studio over a garage, consisting of a long room with a kitchenette and bathroom at one end, and an alcove holding a bed and dresser at the other. It was fully furnished, in the very popular garage sale look, and was painted in a dirty yellow, which set off the moth-eaten mustard couch and low, seventies tiled table perfectly. The widow who had become his landlady was in her sixties, her brilliantly hennaed hair twisted into an improbable beehive, the matching blood-red false nails scraping against his palm as he'd handed over the first and last month's rent in cash. She was delicately scented with a mixture of crème de menthe, lavender toilet water and days' old sweat, but he'd hardly noticed, his attention fixed on the room, hisroom, his place for as long as he wanted it.
The job had been even easier. The first one on the list had been a restaurant four blocks from the apartment. The Roca Roja was a medium sized, family run Mexican restaurant, and they were looking for a bus boy. The owner had looked at Sam for several minutes, given him an application form and hired him when he'd handed it back. He was starting on the dinner shift that night.
He walked back to the apartment slowly, looking around the neighbourhood that he was now a part of. Flyers pasted to the walls of the buildings along the way advertised local bands playing gigs in local bars, an art exhibition at the museum, summer courses at the college, missing pets and advance notices of the festivals and events to come in Prescott over the summer.
Absorbing them all, his thoughts flying so fast he could barely keep up, he realised that he felt like a prisoner who'd just been paroled. This was real life. Making plans. Making friends. Going to places, seeing things, experiencing events … things he'd never been able to do, had hardly been able to imagine. He looked back at a poster for the Prescott Bluegrass Festival in June, his face tightening as he memorised the dates. He was going to that. Alone if he hadn't found anyone to go with him, but he was going.
His chest was tight with the flood of emotion that filled him. All these years, all the rules, all the training and the discipline and no-home and no-friends … god, he was so sick of it, so sick of not being himself, not being allowed to be himself. Maybe what they'd done was important, maybe they'd kept a few people safer for a few more years … maybe they'd been marked, that night when he'd been an infant … he didn't know.
What he did know was that he'd had enough of it. He wanted out. He wanted this … this promise of being with people who weren't packing, weren't scared of the darkness, who went to see live bands at local bars, who thought a trip to a museum to see an art exhibition was a good way to spend an afternoon, who didn't smell of solvent and gun oil and strange herbs. Being with people who might think he was pretty cool with a straight A average and a liking for independent music and … his throat closed up and he swallowed hard, staring sightlessly at the wall as he tried to let the emotion and thoughts through without falling into a complete mess on the street.
He turned abruptly and strode forward, his sight blurry.
"Whoa, cowboy, watch where you're going!"
He stopped dead and looked down at the girl who stood in front of him, a good six inches shorter, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. She was staring up at him, nut-brown curly hair pulled into a loose ponytail, sea-gray eyes wide.
"Sorry."
"No problemo." She stepped aside and he saw the golden retriever beside her, warm brown eyes looking cheerfully up at him, pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.
"Great dog," he said, crouching down beside it. "Yours?"
"Not for much longer. We're moving, and I've got to find him a home today," she said, crouching beside him and watching his hands moving confidently over the dog's head, rubbing behind the ears. "Hey, you want a dog?"
Sam stood up slowly. He did. He'd wanted a dog his whole freaking life. He looked down at the retriever who sat on the sidewalk next to him, lop-sided doggy smile beaming up at him. It was a crazy thing to do. Just get a dog like this. He lived in a tiny apartment.
His father's voice echoed in his ears.
"No, Sammy, for the hundredth time you can't have a dog. It wouldn't be fair to the dog, or to any of us. We don't have a house, or a yard. Do you think a dog would like to be sitting in a car for hundreds of miles, for hours at a time just so that you can play catch with it once in a while? Come on, think about it."
Well, he wasn't going to be sitting in a car for hundreds of miles anymore, was he?
"Yeah, I'd love him. What's his name?" He took the rope leash she handed to him, fingers curling around it, the feel of the coarse rope under them proving it wasn't a dream.
"Bones. For the usual reasons." She grinned at him. "Thanks. Takes a load off my mind; I didn't want to take him down to the shelter."
"Bones." Sam looked down at him, seeing the ears lift slightly. "Better get you some stuff, Bones."
The girl turned around and started walking back the way she'd come. Sam watched her go, bemused by this latest sign that his decision was the right one. A job, a place and a dog. In one day. How about that?
Dean drove along the road right on the speed limit, his gaze veering from side to side but with less and less conviction the closer he got to Flagstaff. He'd missed him, he thought unhappily as he came into the city limits.
He pulled over into a gas station and parked away from the pumps, turning off the engine and thinking. If he'd made it this far, what would he do? For a long moment, nothing came to mind. C'mon, he's your brother, you know him better than anyone else, what the fuck would he do?
He leaned back in the seat, the answer to the question slowly becoming apparent. It depended on what his little brother wanted from this escapade. Time off, time on his own, or to get away from them, for good.
He flinched at the last thought, despite the fact that it had been lurking around in the back of his mind for the last four hours. Sammy had been fighting against the way they lived for the last couple of years. That fight hadn't gone, it hadn't been weakened, if anything it had gotten stronger, the battles of will with their father becoming more personal, more specific.
His little brother had a natural gift for provocation, and Dad was already more touchy than a wounded bear, it didn't take much to set him off. Dean had seen the triumphant glint in his brother's eyes whenever he managed to score what he considered a hit against Dad. The fact that he was hurting him, hurting his brother, hurting their family, never seemed to cross Sam's mind.
There was a bus terminal in Flagstaff. He started the engine again and pulled out. He'd better start there. If his brother had taken a bus out of Flagstaff, he was going to have to call Dad. That thought left the bitter taste of failure in his mouth.
When he came out of the terminal fifteen minutes later, he felt a little better. The woman behind the counter had been on since five that morning and she hadn't recognised the picture of Sam. There was a good chance he was still in Flagstaff.
Of course, he thought tiredly as he crossed the lot to the car, it was a town of some sixty thousand people, and finding him was going to be a bitch. He got in the Impala, taking some comfort from the smell and feel of his car. Motels, hotels, rooms for rent, he thought, putting her into reverse and backing out. He'd start with those.
It hadn't occurred to him before he started, but Flagstaff's proximity to the Grand Canyon meant that the town had a lot of accommodation. A whole lot.
He came out of hotel number thirty, and leaned against the car. It was four o'clock in the afternoon and he hadn't even checked through half of the places yet. He didn't know how much money Sam had, although he knew that his brother had been saving for a while. Sooner or later it would run out. He was almost tempted to go back to Sedona and let that happen, but the memory of his father's face, that look that had been in his eyes, kept him searching. If anything happened to Sam … he shook his head. Nothing would. He would make sure of it. Looking after Sam was what he did, even when his asshole brother didn't want to be looked after.
By six, he was starving and bone-tired. He pulled into a parking space along the street, and looked at the two restaurants nearby. The Brewer's Barrel looked promising, but for another time, he thought. Any alcohol, even a beer, would put him straight to sleep after today. He turned and walked into the Roca Roja, hoping that they served strong freaking chilli because he needed something to keep him going.
The chilli was good and he finished the meal quickly, barely noticing the staff who served him and took his empty plates away. He'd try and cover another few places until nine and then get a room and crash. He could start again in the morning. He glanced at his watch as he paid the check. Quarter to seven. He walked onto the street and got into the car, turning north.
Sam glanced at his watch as he hurried along the street, turning into the alley that led to the back door of the restaurant. Six forty-five. His shift started at seven, and he wanted to be ready.
Bones had settled down in the apartment contentedly, and Sam had unpacked his bag and cleaned up a little. He was already thinking of it as 'home' – going 'home' after his shift, going 'home' to take Bones for a walk, buying groceries to take 'home' – it was a faintly weird thought process, but one he was enjoying at the same time.
Inside the bathroom for the staff, he changed quickly into the uniform black pants, starched white shirt and apron that Jose had shown him, putting his street clothes into the locker assigned. He came into the main room and looked around for Elise, the waitress who was supposed to be training him tonight. A tall, thin young woman with a wild fall of thick black hair stood between the bathrooms and the staff room, drawing her hair back into a knot at the base of her neck. She looked up as she felt his gaze on her.
"You the new guy?"
He nodded. "You Elise?"
She smiled. "Yeah. Well, let's get into it, time's money for us working stiffs."
She walked down to the kitchen, and Sam followed, listening as she explained the way the restaurant and the tightly-knit group of staff worked.
"Now, don't know what Jose told you about tips but the first three days, while I'm training you, there won't be any, got it? That's my training wage. After that, and depending on how fast you are, how thorough and how well you do your job, you'll get ten percent or more from the tips that come into our area."
Sam nodded, stopping as she came to an abrupt halt in front of him. "So clear the tables, wipe them down – spotlessly, I might add – bring the dishes back here and hand them over to Frank," She pointed to the dishwasher in the corner, who raised his hand in greeting, his tight red curls hidden and constrained by a paper cap. Sam looked over, nodding and looked back to her. "Reset the tables and in between, if we have a lull, you come back in here and stack away the dishes that Frank's washed, help out with trash, whatever anyone needs, right?"
"Sure." Sam looked carefully around the kitchen, making mental notes of where everything was kept. He thought he could handle it.
"Good, 'cos our shift just started. You punched in, right?"
"Yeah."
The night passed very quickly. He watched Elise moving around the tables, smiling and deferential, getting every order down accurately, carrying three or four plates out and handing them out without a single error and he followed her around, clearing off dirty plates, wiping down, helping Frank out with the stacking or washing, taking the trash out … he didn't have time to stop or to think, and he found that suited him pretty well.
The restaurant quietened down from eleven and although they kept serving until midnight, there were far fewer customers and the pace eased off. At one, Jose closed the doors and everyone moved around, cleaning up, putting everything away, ready for the next day. Jose handed out the tips and closed out the register, nodding to Sam approvingly as Sam walked back to the staff room. He changed out of the work clothes, hanging everything up, and walked out the back door with Elise at one-thirty.
"Pretty good, kid." She smiled at him and pulled a twenty from the roll in her hand. "Bonus. You earned it."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Thought that was your training wage?"
She shrugged. "I don't like people who goof off on the job, but I'm happy to reward hard work when I see it. Like I said, you earned it." She turned away, heels clicking on the asphalt as she walked down the alley. "See you tomorrow!"
"Yeah, see you tomorrow." He tucked the twenty into his pocket and turned the other way, heading for home.
June 3, 2000. Arizona.
Dean sat on the motel bed, his head in his hands. The headache he'd woken with was getting worse, pounding at the inside of his skull like a jackhammer, his stomach was churning and he'd run out of options. He'd been to every motel and hotel in the city. He'd been to the construction sites, the library, the museum, the college, every restaurant and bar, he'd lurked around the bookstores and he'd even made a pass through the strip joints and brothels, a move that said everything about his level of desperation. He'd checked the bus terminal twice more and driven out to the airport as well. His brother had just fucking disappeared.
He was beginning to think he'd gotten it wrong. That Sam had headed south to Prescott instead. He shook his head. He could've gone to Phoenix. He could've gotten a cheap flight to anywhere. He pressed his fingertips against his temples and tried to shove down the fear that was now a permanent fixture in his head.
Getting up unsteadily, he walked to the little kitchenette and filled a glass from the tap. A bottle of Tylenol sat on the counter, and he shook two out, tossing them into his mouth and washing them down. He put the bottle into his jacket, and picked up his keys and wallet. He'd have to check out Prescott. He couldn't think of anywhere else to look here.
SR 89A ran down from Flagstaff to Prescott, going through Sedona and Cottonwood and Clarkdale. Dean stopped at the house in Sedona, had a shower and checked that the house was still secure, then continued along the highway. He checked Cottonwood desultorily, but didn't really think Sam would have stopped there. Clarkdale he passed through without stopping. When he got to Prescott, he pulled into a gas station and filled the tank, grabbing a coffee and a local map, accommodation listings printed on the back. It would be a help.
He drove from motel to hotel through the rest of the day, asking questions, showing the photograph of his brother, concocting stories to suit the people he was interviewing. No one had seen Sam. None of the motels or hotels had any of their aliases listed as checked in.
He parked on the street, outside a small, local bar. Sitting in the car, listening to a tape playing quietly, he pulled the bottle of Tylenol from his pocket. The rattle was much softer and he lifted it, staring at the two pills that were left. After a moment he opened it and shook them out, dry-swallowing them.
The bar was quiet and almost empty and he took a seat at the long timber counter and asked for a whiskey.
June 9, 2000. Flagstaff, Arizona.
Sam opened the door and crouched down to pat and get a tongue bath from Bones. The dog was insanely easy to please, wagging his whole rear end on any occasion or even on no occasion. From the refrigerator he took a can of soda, and grabbed a bag of Funyuns from the basket he kept filled on the counter. He turned on the TV, wanting to zone out for a while, let the day settle down in his head before he went to bed.
He had a routine going now, a steady, predictable routine that was as novel as it was soothing. He woke around eight, and he and Bones would go for a long walk around the neighbourhood, up to the park and back down to the apartment. He made himself breakfast and spent a couple of hours writing out applications for colleges, taking his notes up to the library in the early afternoons to use the computers and printers there. Another walk with Bones and a snack, then it was time for his shift at the restaurant, and after that he'd spend an hour or so watching late night TV or listening to the radio or reading before he felt weary enough to go to sleep. It wasn't exciting. It wasn't dangerous. It was just his day.
He flopped onto the couch, popping open the soda and taking a swallow. The scent of onions wafted from the bag when he opened it, and he sat contentedly, Bones curled up beside him on the cheap quilt, munching on his junk food, watching the end of a very old Clint Eastwood spaghetti western.
At two, he started yawning. He pushed Bones off the couch and turned off the TV, going into the small bathroom to clean his teeth. Settling himself in the centre of the double bed, he pulled the quilt up and rolled onto his side, his eyes closing, grinning to himself as he felt the lurch of the mattress as Bones jumped up.
He was sitting in a dark room, a room he felt he should have recognised, but didn't. The single light source was from the hallway outside the room. It cast a long yellow triangle onto the floor through the open doorway. He felt uneasy about the room, the open doorway, that yellow triangle coming into the room. He wanted to get out of the chair but he couldn't move.
He heard footsteps coming down the hall and now he really wanted to move. His body remained still. He heard his breathing quicken, the air puffing out in little gasps, just the way Dr Perez had told him not to breathe. He couldn't control that either.
A man appeared in the doorway, a silhouette, jet black against the light behind him.
"Ah, Sammy, can't get free just yet." The man's voice was rich with nuance, through the southern accent. "Soon, kiddo, you'll have your shot soon. But not just yet. Your old man still has a few things to teach you."
Sam tried to speak. Nothing came out.
"No, no, this isn't what you'd call a dialogue, Sammy. This is … well, let's call it a push. Gently at first, but I'll get stronger if you don't pay attention."
He disappeared. The light in the hall went out.
And Sam sat up in the bed, his breathing too shallow and rapid, the memory of the dream fading as he lifted his hands to rub his eyes.
Sedona, Arizona
Dean looked up at the sound of the key in the front door, springing to his feet and almost running to the hall. He stopped as his father walked in, dropping his bags on the floor, turning to pull the keys from the lock, shutting the door behind him.
"Hey." John glanced at his son as he turned around, his gaze moving past Dean then snapping back to the young man as he belatedly registered Dean's appearance.
"What's wrong?" There were deep shadows under his son's eyes, freckles standing out against too pale skin.
Dean looked at him, then took a deep breath. "I lost Sam."
"What do you mean, you lost him?" John's brows drew down. "Lost him where? How?"
"After graduation, he took off the next d-day." Dean unconsciously straightened, stiffening himself as he watched his father absorbing the information. "I've looked everywhere for him, Flagstaff, Prescott, all over town, all through every town around here. I – I can't find him."
John closed his eyes, struggling to deal with the fear that boiled like acid through him, cutting off his air and soaking him instantly in a cold sweat.
"Took off? You mean he ran away? On his own?"
"Yeah. He packed everything."
John's eyes snapped open and he looked at Dean. "Wait a minute, after graduation – this happened ten fucking days ago?"
Dean bowed his head. "I went looking for him, I didn't want to –"
"Jesus Christ, Dean!" The fear broke through and anger was the only thing John had left to fight it with. The words roared out of his throat, and hit his son like a sledgehammer, Dean twitching as he forced himself not to flinch away. "What the fucking hell is wrong with you? Ten goddamned days you wait …"
He closed the distance between them, grabbing the edges of Dean's jacket and slamming him back against the wall, his face inches from his son's.
"You don't wait to tell me! You fucking tell me straight away!"
Dean kept his eyes open, staring wide and terrified into his father's. He wanted to shut them. He wanted to hide. He hadn't felt that way since he was little but he felt it now.
"If your brother dies, Dean – if he dies, then it's on you." John let him go and turned abruptly away. The anger coursing through him was a flood and it wanted much more of a release than just words. He was shaking with the effort to control it, and he didn't want his son to see that either.
Behind him, Dean stood still, unmoving.
"Ten days … jesus, no." John walked away, fists clenched, trying to think, trying to get on top of the fear, to rein in the anger, trying to find some fucking level that he could just stop and think.
Sam alone. Dean alone for the last ten days. His stomach heaved as he remembered Azazel's last threat. He hadn't known what it was, but he'd looked it up. And wished he hadn't. He couldn't take Dean with him; he had too little control, too much fear, too much anger. He couldn't leave him alone either. The goddamned demon would find him and kill him. He turned suddenly, looking at his son.
"Get packed, everything, right now."
"No, I can help – "
"FOLLOW THE GODDAMNED ORDER, DEAN!"
John walked to the kitchen without waiting to see if Dean was going. Watching the rigidity of his father's stride, Dean turned and headed for his bedroom. His stomach was lurching, the headache had gone beyond pounding into a new realm of glass shards and ice picks and the words, his father's words, were ricocheting around in his head.
He veered into the bathroom and threw up the little bile that he had, turning to the sink and rinsing the taste out of his mouth, the cold water giving him a little relief from the pain in his head. He hurried out and into his bedroom, grabbing the bag and shoving everything into it, as fast as he could, trying to keep his mind blank, trying not to think, trying – desperately trying – not to feel anything.
John was waiting in the hall. "Go to Jim's. Right now. Don't stop, don't take any risks, just go to Jim's and stay there."
Dean nodded, his gaze on the floor. He walked past his father to the door, turning as he opened it. John stood in the hallway, eyes closed and head bowed. Dean closed the door behind him and walked to the Impala, struggling to breathe against the increasing tension in his chest, his throat.
He got into the car. Started the engine. Pulled away from the kerb. Drove.
John walked slowly into the living room and sat on the couch. What the hell had they been thinking? Sam, to go off like that. Dean to wait so goddamned long before telling him.
They didn't know what was after them, he told himself bleakly. They didn't know because you didn't tell them. All the good and sound and logical reasons for not telling them seemed ludicrous now.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Still shaking. He was drowning in fear, in the images that his subconscious regurgitated every night. The dreamcatcher stopped the demon from entering his dreams. But nothing could stop his imagination from throwing his deepest fears at him.
He leaned against the back of the couch, sucking in lungfuls of air, thinking of how to find his youngest son.
Route 191 Utah
Dean drove like a machine, his eyes open and unblinking, fingers tight around the wheel, foot steady on the accelerator, the speed of the black car never varying as it rumbled along the highway. He was crossing into Utah when the sun set, lighting the barren rock, sands and mesas that filled the desert along the road to improbable hues and tints and shades of red and gold. He missed all of the spectacular light show, his focus narrowed to the black road, delineated by the white lines that ran to either side of him. Inside the car, the volume of the stereo was all the way up, and the music thumped and pounded against his eardrums, drowning out his thoughts, shutting them down, stopping the undertow from dragging him deep.
He was distantly aware that he was getting tired, that the headache hadn't gone away, had just been out-shouted by Metallica and AC/DC, Zeppelin and the Stones. He glanced down at the mileage counter, nodding to himself. He could do another couple of hours. At Crescent Junction he'd be peeling off right, onto the interstate. He would be alright until then.
He let the music soak into him again, the bass regulating his pulse, the riffs and rhythms filling his mind. He couldn't hear his father in here now. Couldn't hear the lash of anger. So long as his eyes were open, his concentration on the road unwinding endlessly ahead of him, he couldn't see his father's face. He was safe.
June 10, 2000. Flagstaff, Arizona
Sam sank into sleep quickly, the day had gone fast and he was tired.
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Didn't I tell you it was time to go home?" The voice came out of the darkness in his closet. Sam scrunched deeper under his covers and breathed through his mouth, trying to be silent and invisible, trying to convince the monster that he wasn't there.
"You know what you've done to your brother, don't you?"
He shivered. Dean was okay, he told himself firmly. Nothing had happened to his big brother. Nothing could happen to his big brother. Dean, like Dad, was invincible and indestructable.
"Not even close, kiddo. Check it out."
The TV set in the corner of the room came on suddenly, white snow filling the screen. Sam peeked over the edge of the covers, watching the picture resolve into a forest, by the side of a road. The Impala was parked next to the forest, and in the middle of the trees was his brother, kneeling on the ground, his head thrown back and eyes screwed shut and his mouth wide open.
Dean was … screaming. There was no sound from the TV, but his brother was clearly screaming. He shut his eyes against the sight. They popped open again. He could see the veins standing out along Dean's neck, bright red blood coming from his mouth, the scream so intense that it was rupturing the blood vessels inside of him.
"Go home, Sam. Go find your Daddy. Your time will come, have no doubt, but it's not now."
Sam woke up sweating, his hair wet and dripping into his eyes. He remembered … he remembered his brother screaming.
He pulled the covers off and swung his legs off the couch, hunching over as he tried to retrieve more than that fragment from the dream. His pulse was racing, he knew there was more, but he couldn't grasp it, couldn't hold onto it.
He got up and went to the kitchenette, turning on the coffee maker. Dean. He hadn't really thought of what his brother would do or think or feel when he'd disappeared. He and Dad, the two of them lived for hunting, for the life, and they seemed so dissimilar to him that he couldn't imagine their reactions to his going off (running away) and doing his own thing for a while.
But in the back of his mind, he knew differently. He knew that Dean would be … (panicking, devastated, terrified) … worried by his disappearance. The pot filled and he poured himself a cup, taking it back to the couch.
Dad would have returned from Phoenix by now. Dean would have told him (Sammy ran away on my watch) and the two of them were probably searching for him right now, Dad angry (with Dean) for the time wasted in the search.
Sam put the cup down and looked around the small apartment. This was what he wanted. This life. No monsters or guns, no salt or ghosts. Just regular life. But he (should have told Dean, should have told Dad) probably should have let them know instead of disappearing. He dragged in a deep breath.
Yeah, it had been kind of childish to just (disappear, vanish, hide) take off.
He chewed on his bottom lip. He'd call his brother tomorrow. The memory of Dean, kneeling on the forest floor, his head thrown back, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as the scream ripped out his throat, flashed back into his mind. He shook it off. Just a dream (nightmare), he thought. It wasn't like it could be real.
Sedona, Arizona
John opened his eyes, looking around for the ringing sound. His phone lay on the table next to the couch, and he finally focussed on it, picking it up.
"Yeah."
"Dad? It's Sam." Sam waited.
"Where are you?"
Sam hesitated as the question, and the tone of his father's voice, didn't match up to his expectations. "In Flagstaff."
"You all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam looked at the phone. "I tried to call Dean, but his phone's off."
"Yeah. I know." John rubbed his forehead. Dean would be in Blue Earth this afternoon, early evening maybe. He'd already called Jim to let him know.
"Is he okay?" Sam asked. He was having a problem getting his head around this conversation. This was nothing like what he'd thought his father would say – or sound – like.
"He's alright." He closed his eyes at the outright lie. Dean was not all right. But he was alive. "Give me the address, Sam, I'll be there in an hour."
Sam gave it to him and hung up, turning to look sorrowfully at Bones, panting happily beside him. "Sorry buddy, I gotta go."
He slipped the rope collar around the dog's neck and opened the door, leading him outside. They walked down to the park. He'd thought of trying to get John to accept the dog, a fait accompli, but his father wouldn't. So he had two choices, he could try and find someone on this walk, or he could take Bones down to the shelter. He was trying to find someone.
John packed up the house and dropped the key back to the landlord on his way out of town. He drove steadily along the highway, the stereo providing a barrier to his thoughts. Not much of one.
There was no point getting on Sam's case about his disappearing trick. Sam had done what Sam always did, act first, think later. Possibly he hadn't considered his brother's reaction, although John was fairly sure that Sam had thought about his reaction. It didn't matter. He'd alienated one son, he didn't want to add to the count.
He pulled up in front of the house exactly one hour later, watching as Sam came down the stairs, his duffle bulging. Sam threw the bag into the back and got into the truck, looking at his father. John nodded at him, and pulled out, heading north.
June 12, 2000. Blue Earth, Minnesota
Jim watched Dean cleaning the gun. Every movement was deliberate, methodical, as if he was focussing his concentration on the task so completely that no thought could intrude. He sighed. He had a feeling that's exactly what Dean was doing.
John had called an hour earlier. They were in Nebraska, would be there in a few hours.
Dean had spoken very little since he'd arrived yesterday. He gave Jim the bare outlines of what had happened. Looking at him, Jim could guess what John's reactions had been to Sam's disappearance – he knew what John feared, knew that the fear was making him irrational and unable to control his emotions, his reactions. The fear would have turned to rage, and the rage had spilled all over his eldest son.
He'd disagreed with John about not telling the boys of the demon's threats. Perhaps now, John would change his mind.
Getting up from the chair and walking to the porch steps, he sat down a couple of feet from the young man.
"Your Dad's a good man, Dean," he said softly. He saw Dean stiffen, his lips compress tightly. After a moment the young man nodded.
"Even the best men can't withstand torture if it goes on too long." He paused for a long moment. "And hunting the demon that killed your mother, that's been torture for a long time now."
Dean muttered something softly under his breath and Jim leaned closer.
"What?"
"He won't let me help him." He cleared his throat. "He doesn't want my help."
Looking at his profile, he watched Dean's jaw muscle bulge as he set his jaw, suppressing whatever emotions that admission had brought.
"He's afraid, Dean," Jim said slowly, turning to look across the garden to the church beyond. It was, he thought, something John couldn't admit easily to the boys, but it was something they needed to know, to be able to understand. "He's terrified that if he puts you into the firing line, where he is, he'll lose you, or Sam or both of you."
Dean stopped working on the gun. Jim saw the glint of a tear caught in his eyelashes. He stood up slowly, putting his hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezing it.
"Never seen a man who loves his family so much as your father loves you boys, Dean," he said quietly, looking down at the bowed head below him. "He'd die for you and Sam, he would've died for your mother if he'd been a given a choice in the matter."
He looked down. The young man was as still as stone under his hand, his body rigid with inner tension.
"Dying is easy though, compared to living with what happened. What's still happening." He felt his hand lift slightly as Dean took a deep breath. "He keeps thinking he's gotten used to the fear, then something happens and his control goes again."
Dean caught that, looking up sharply. "What happened?"
Jim smiled, and patted the shoulder he'd been holding. "He has to tell you that, son, I can't."
"He won't."
"Maybe he will. Now." Jim looked down at him again. "If that gun's clean, come inside. I'll beat your ass at some poker, what do you say?"
Dean looked down at the gun, some of the tension bleeding out of him as he thought about what Jim had said. He wanted to believe that it wasn't him, wasn't his failures that made his father look at him like that. He wanted to believe that.
He closed his eyes for a moment then looked up at Jim. "I say you better have cash to back your stake, old man, 'cos I could use a new tape deck for the car."
Jim grinned at him, relieved that at least some of what he'd said had been enough to break through. He'd known the young man in front of him since he'd been a small child, had seen him grow up. Most of what Dean felt was on the surface, clearly visible. Some things were not. All of it added up to a complicated man, driven by his family, bearing burdens that had changed and distorted him
There was no way of raising the contradictions he could see in Dean now. He had effective armour against personal conversations that defied an easy fix. He was smart, Jim knew, and curiously pure-hearted for a man who crossed society's lines of acceptable behaviour without much thought.
The priest's grin widened as he looked at the challenging expression in Dean's eyes.
"Bring it on."
Sam got out of the truck and stretched. They'd done the last nine hours straight through and he felt like a pretzel.
John sat in the truck, staring at the wheel. He was afraid, he realised. Afraid to get out of the truck, go inside and face his son. What he'd said to him … he didn't know how to make that right again.
Sam glanced at his father through the windshield, his brow wrinkling as he saw the fixed stare. He stood indecisively beside the front of the truck, and heard the screen door banging open.
Dean walked onto the porch and down the steps to his brother. Sam had grown again and they stood eye-to-eye now. The punch came out of nowhere, landing on Sam's jaw and knocking him to the ground. He lay there, looking up at Dean, then nodded resignedly.
"Guess I deserved that." He rolled onto his knees and stood up, cautiously taking a step back from his older brother, just in case the one hadn't been enough.
"Yeah." Dean let out the breath he'd been holding. "You alright?"
"Yeah."
"Jim's inside, looking to make some money off us at poker."
Sam grinned. "How much is he into you for?"
Dean snorted and turned away. It would take some time before he could laugh properly again with his brother. He'd come to understand on the long, lonely drive to Minnesota that Sam had acted without thinking, without thinking about him. That had hurt a lot more than he'd thought it would.
He watched his little brother climb the steps to the house, then turned to look into the truck. He could see his father inside it, forehead resting against the wheel, unmoving. John looked up, too quickly for Dean to turn away, their eyes meeting.
John got out of the truck and walked to his son. Dean's gaze had dropped to the ground, his shoulders hunching slightly.
"You want to take a swing at me too?" his father asked, lifted his chin.
Dean's gaze snapped upward, his eyes widening with shock at the suggestion.
John looked at him seriously. "I deserve it."
"No. You were right. I –"
John stepped forward fast, enfolding Dean in his arms, holding him tightly, cutting him off. "Don't say that, I wasn't right, I was – I was scared and it came out as anger and I took that out on you, instead of controlling it, dealing with it – I wasn't right, Dean, I was so goddamned wrong." He dragged in a deep breath, forcing it past the obstruction in his throat. "I'm sorry. "
Within the unexpected embrace, Dean stood perfectly still, hearing the ragged breathing of his father beside his ear, paralysed by his father's words and the rarity of physical contact in equal measures.
"You okay, Dad?" he whispered uncertainly when the silence between them stretched on and his father didn't move.
John's chest hitched, his arms tightening around his son. "No, not really, dude."
He let go and stepped back, looking into the young man's face. "You're one tough kid, you know that?"
Dean ducked his head, his gaze sweeping the ground. He had no idea what to say, what to think. Inside, where he lived, where it was just him, he didn't think that. He felt his father's hand on his shoulder and looked up.
"Don't ever think I don't want your help, Dean, no matter what I say. But there are times when the choice between keeping you and Sammy safe, and having you with me, is just too heavily weighted in the enemy's favour. Do you understand?"
Dean shook his head. "We're in this together, Dad. You can't protect us by getting yourself killed."
John smiled. "Maybe not. But I'm your father, and if I didn't try to protect you, if I didn't try to keep you out of harm's way, I would be a failure at the most important job I have."
Love is never simple. Not for fathers and sons. We spend our lives full of hope and expectations. And most of the time we are bound to fail. But that afternoon as I watched my father sheltering his son against a future that was so unsure, all I knew was they didn't want to let each other down anymore.
~ Narrator, The Wonder Years