Chapter 21 – Fences to Mend

When the heaving had passed, Sam turned on the spigot beside Bobby's front porch and scrubbed his face and hands in the cold water. Then, running his damp hands absently through his hair, he wandered back over to the Impala. Why did crap like this keep happening? Why couldn't he have one day of peace? Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, Sam slid it open and hit speed dial number one. It rang and rang and rang, then went to voicemail. Ruby's voice – coma girl's voice, really – came on immediately. "Off saving the world. Leave a message and maybe I'll get back to you. Maybe." Sam ground his teeth. He hated that message. It made her sound like a bitchy teenager, not a being who'd lived for hundreds of years. "Call me as soon as you get this," he said, not bothering to identify himself. Who else would be calling Ruby anyway? Then, clenching his jaw, Sam cut the call and paced back and forth, his anger increasing with every step. Turning back to the gutted car, he recommenced wiping down the contents of the trunk, the growing pile of clean items not giving him the pleasure it had just a short while ago. When ten minutes had gone by, he pulled his cell back out and tried again. Still voicemail. "Call me, Ruby. Now," he said through gritted teeth. The third time his message consisted of a growling, "Where the hell are you?" that left him just as frustrated and even angrier than before. He'd managed to wipe down half the contents of the trunk – not counting the guns which would have to be disassembled and cleaned from the inside out – when his cell phone finally buzzed in his pocket. Yanking it free of his jeans, Sam hit the talk button and practically smashed the phone to his ear.

Ruby was already talking. "Sam, what's wrong? Has something happened?"

"Hell yes, something has happened! What were you thinking?" he demanded, his ire bubbling rapidly to a full boil.

"What? Sam, what are you talking about?"

"The fire. The fire in Greybull. You burned down that hotel?"
"Oh, that."

"Yes, that. Ruby, what were you thinking? How could you burn down The Trailbreak? You might have killed someone."

"Sam, what gives?" Ruby asked, clearly exasperated. "You've never questioned how I've done things before."

"Of course I . . . wait, what do you mean, I've never questioned what you did before? Are you saying you've done this before?"

"If you mean a fire, then yeah, I have. It the fastest and easiest way to destroy boat-loads of evidence. What did you think I'd do, pop on an apron and some gloves and go all June Cleaver on the place?"

"Jesus, Ruby!"

Ruby said nothing, but a strange hissing rumble came over line and it occurred to Sam abruptly that she was . . . that she was growling. For a moment, he thought Ruby was just angry with him, as he was with her, but then he realized the truth. Ruby was a demon, a demon who was reacting to the name of Jesus. He might as well have thrown holy water in her face. Sometimes – damn it – sometimes he completely forgot what she was. "I'm –" Sam broke off. He'd been on the verge of apologizing, because, demon or not, Ruby was an ally, maybe even a friend, but the very ludicrousness of it stopped him. How could he apologize to a demon, even a demon like her, for having the audacity to mention God? Sam was already furious with her over the fire. He wasn't about to say he was sorry for behaving like a human.

Neither of them said anything, neither of them willing to be the one to break down and break the silence. Neither willing to break – period. Ruby was in the wrong here, and Sam wasn't going to back down. Too many times in his life, too many times in the last four years, he had been the one to back down even when he knew he was right, even when he knew the other person was wrong. He'd done it with his father, with Dean, and now with Ruby. But no more. So Sam stood there and fumed, the sound of Ruby's offended breathing the only thing telling him that she hadn't hung up yet. He grit his teeth, pacing back and forth beside the Impala. He really didn't like standing in the open like this. If Dean saw him on the phone, he'd know instantly who Sam was talking to, and that would mean another fight. Not that he didn't have the right to talk to whomever he wanted, not that he needed his brother's permission to do anything. He wasn't a child, and Dean wasn't his father.

His father . . .

Sam rubbed his forehead, still holding the phone to his ear. He didn't even want to contemplate what John would think of his youngest son now. John had turned his back on Sam just for daring to want a normal life, for daring to go to college instead of sticking with hunting. It seemed strange to Sam now that his father had so desperately resisted his attempts to be normal. So ironic for John to fight that so hard when his greatest fear had been that Sam would go darkside. You'd have thought he'd have wanted Sam as far away from hunting and anything to do with monsters as possible. If John knew that Sam was working with a demon, knew that he was actively developing his psychic powers, knew that he was . . .

Acid churned in Sam's gut. He had no doubt, no uncertainty whatsoever, that John would kill his youngest son himself, just as he would kill any other so-called monster. Then . . . then John had died, and instead of talking to Sam about his fears, instead of trusting Sam with the truth, his father had laid that burden squarely on Dean's shoulders. He said I might have to kill you, Sammy. That moment when Dean had told him about John's last words to him was burned into his memory like a brand. How could his father have done that to Dean? How could his father have done that to him? Done it to them as brothers? It was beyond cruel to both of them. Worse, he'd probably expect Dean to actually – Sam turned as he heard footsteps on the porch behind him. It was Dean. He had his leather jacket on, his go bag slung over his shoulder and what looked like a key ring clutched in his hand. Sam could still hear Ruby breathing over the connection, but he hung up on her without a qualm.

"Dean," he called, shoving the cell phone into his pocket and hurrying to catch up with his brother. "Dean, where are you going?"

"For a drive," Dean answered without a pause, not breaking his stride or turning to look at Sam. "I need to clear my head."

"A drive? In what? The Impala's not ready. If you'll just give me an hour, I'll have her all cleaned up and then we can – "

Dean stopped, and for a moment he just stood there, his head down, shoulders and back stiff, his eyes fixed firmly on the gravel at his feet. When he looked up, the gaze he turned on Sam was distant. "We? There is no we here, Sam. There's just me, going for a drive. Alone. "

Sam gulped. "But the car…" He trailed off as Dean glanced over his shoulder, looking past Sam to the evidence of the on-going clean up. Operation Litter Extraction. How could so much have gone so wrong so fast?

The stiff set of his brother's shoulders relaxed somewhat, and when he spoke, his voice sounded less hostile, though bone tired. "Bobby has plenty of spare cars, Sam. He won't mind me taking the Malibu for a couple days."

Sam's eyes widened and he felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. "A couple of days? Dean, are you leaving?"

"I told you, I need to clear my head." He was still looking over Sam's shoulder, not meeting his eyes.

"You need a few days to do that? Come on, Dean," Sam said cajolingly. "You're head's not that big." The humor rang false, beyond strained, but at least it got his brother to actually look at him.

"Sam…"

"Dean, you're pissed at me. I get it," Sam said in a rush, "but don't just take off. Don't. Please. Especially not in that old Malibu. It's a piece of crap, and you know it. You wouldn't get fifty miles."

Dean sighed. "It's not like I'm leaving leaving. I just need some space, some time to think."

Sam couldn't help a small snort at the irony. "Isn't that supposed to be my line?"

"Yeah, well, you've changed." His brother was looking away again, staring at the Impala, his expression largely unreadable except for the sulky angle of his jaw

"Everything changes, Dean." Sam said. "That's life." But Sam couldn't help thinking that it wasn't life that had changed them both. It was death. Sam's death, Dean's death and Hell: the trifecta of the damned. Taking a deep breath, he reached out a hand and tentatively took hold of the go-bag that had begun to slip from Dean's shoulder and down his arm. "Look, Alastair is still out there. Lilith is still out there. Both of them are bound to be mad as hell that you got away." Sam saw Dean flinch, wincing at the very mention of Alastair's name, and he pressed his advantage. He'd use Dean's fear if he had to. He'd use anything to keep him safe. "It's not a good idea for you to go off on your own right now. I'm not saying you can't take care of yourself." Dean eyed him dubiously. "I'm not," Sam insisted. "It's just that we need to stick together. What happened in Greybull, that was way too close. Pamela's dead and that could have been either one of us. So, please. Be as pissed at me as you want, but don't go."

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head, but not in disagreement. "Fine. Whatever, dude." Sam heaved a sigh of relief as Dean turned and walked back to the house. The last thing, the absolute last thing he needed right now was his practically crippled brother wandering around the countryside getting into trouble without Sam there to get him out of it again. Sam followed after him and dropped the go-bag just inside the front door. Then, heading back to finish his work on the Impala, he pulled his phone out. He had some fences to mend with Ruby.