Chapter Twenty-Three

They left Bobby's on November fifth, while Dean was still limping slightly when he forgot to hide it and Sam hurt more in his gut from watching Dean's tight smile than in his arm.

They drove east. Dean kept his hands on the wheel, didn't so much as glance at a map, and they didn't talk as the long, brown prairie stretched around them, edged by the brown skeletons of shelterbelts and here and there with early snow.

Sam could hear Dean's voice in his head, telling him about those trees, the nearest cities, the speed limit (or lack thereof), the little red Charger that buzzed past them on the endless, two-lane highway, but Dean didn't open his mouth except to mutter something nasty at the Charger, and Sam didn't speak either.

Maybe he should have realized it sooner as they traveled steadily east, but while they overnighted in Cambridge, Ohio, and crashed for a couple hours of shut-eye at a gas station east of Harrisburg, Sam was preoccupied every hour watching Dean's body language, looking for signs that that night might end with them in a bar. It wasn't until Dean stopped for gas outside Wilmington that Sam realized, checking out the huge trucker's map taped in the hallway by the bathrooms.

Washington, D.C. was barely an hour away. But Dean's current route would have them skirting around the city, rather than going through it.

Sam knew his hunch was right when they turned south on Highway 13 and didn't stop until the wee hours of the morning and ten miles west of Norfolk.

Half an hour after dawn, with early sunlight running its fingers down the Impala's black sides, they pulled into a motel with a faded blue awning over the lobby door and duct tape holding one of the side windows together. The night manager took one look at the fistful of twenties Dean shoved under the glass partition, slid him a key—a real metal key, not one of the plastic cards that Sam was becoming more and more familiar with—and didn't ask questions.

Sam had hoped that Dean would sleep, but once they got into the room (faintly scented with old cigarette smoke and a hint of cat), he just settled on the end of one of the twin beds and stared down at his hands resting in his lap.

Sam, after a moment's hesitation, joined him on the opposite corner of the small bed. The springs beneath them creaked.

He didn't want to ask the question burning in his throat. This was...Mary Campbell-Winchester was not someone he could ask questions about, not a safe place for a monster to tread, no matter how much of a real he could pretend to be. And it wasn't just that he didn't have the right to ask, didn't have the right to question what a mother meant when he never had one of his own—none that counted the way a real's mother did—but that he didn't know how Dean would react. He didn't want to see Dean flinch, but the twisting anxiety in his gut, right next to his loathing for all the freaks that had ripped apart Dean's life, meant that he couldn't sit next to Dean on that battered bed, couldn't face the next day (it can always get worse), if he didn't know where they were going.

"W-we headed to W-W-Washington next?" Sam asked.

Dean twitched, the movement visible even through the poor lighting in the room, and Sam's hand almost reached for his shoulder. But he aborted the motion, lowering his fist to rest against the cheap comforter.

Dean drew a deep, painful breath, and then released it. It was the fast sort of sound a man made getting punched in the gut. "I don't know where they buried her," he said, low and hoarse, toward his knees. "The funeral...the funeral was in Lawrence, Da—John took me. I remember all these people I didn't know and D—he held my hand the whole time like he...but I don't know where she—it's not like they fucking buried her. There wouldn't be a body, you know? We—hunters, I mean—we burn the dead."

Sam felt like Victor had just slammed him in the abdomen with his baton. His chest was tight and painful and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't. Mary Cam—Mary Winchester didn't deserve that kind of death, the same kind of end destined for a monster, her ashes dropped in some pit like the filth/monsters/freaks she'd destroyed.

"Hunter—no one ev-ever t-told you?"

Dean laughed, but it had no humor in it. "Never asked." He tilted his head, closed his eyes, like he was concentrating on popping a shoulder back into joint. "Who just forgets?" he asked quietly, and Sam heard the bitterness, anger, and shame that had been perceptible in all of Dean's expressions and movements since the day after the anniversary. "Who fucking forgets their—how could I forget her? No one else ever fucking does."

Slowly, cautiously, afraid that Dean might slap him down (or worse, pull away), Sam put his hand over Dean's, whose posture didn't change, but at least he didn't give any sign that Sam's touch was unwelcome.

"You were injured," Sam said, just as quietly. "We both were, we didn't have any ne-newspapers, and p-pain can m-make you forget...forget things you sh-shouldn't." He didn't need to be thinking of Wednesdays, not now when all his attention and focus had to be on Dean. "Sh-she w-was your m-mother and she lo—sh-she wouldn't want you t-t-to" (hate yourself) "h-hurt yourself b-because you c-couldn't re-remember." He took a deep breath. "You didn't forget her, just because you forgot the date."

Sam wasn't sure if what he was saying was the truth, but he couldn't imagine the woman that Dean had told him about wanting her son to suffer like this because of a simple, horrible, easy mistake. Then again, he couldn't imagine talking about Hunter Winchester the way Dean had when they were kids, so there were things that he knew he still couldn't understand about reals. But he hoped, for Dean's sake, that the words were true.

It took a long, slow minute, but beneath his hand Dean's slowly unclenched, and then, cautiously, he turned his hand to take Sam's. Sam replied with a squeeze, and suddenly his fingers were held in a fierce grip, as though Dean were hanging onto Sam to keep from being dragged down by an undertow.

Sam would hold onto him forever, if Dean would let him.

Later that day, when they woke up in the crap hotel room in Suffolk, Dean felt like he'd had whiskey poured down his throat—the rough rasp when he swallowed, the ache that came from a few shots but not too many—but a good chunk of the fog of misery and aimlessness had faded in the night, lanced by Sam's careful, nervous questions. It was less that Dean hated himself and more that he felt tired of the whole fucking thing.

He'd forgotten, and maybe that made him a shitty son, but it wasn't like that was something he didn't already know. Part of him, a big part, wanted to hit the closest bar and not come up for air until he was choking on his own lungs, but the rest knew that getting shitfaced at this point wasn't going to do anything but give Sam that pinched look around his eyes that meant he was worried but wouldn't call Dean on his bullshit.

Maybe Sam should call Dean on his bullshit more often.

After a continental breakfast of bread (the broken toaster hadn't produced heat, much less toast), sludge coffee and peanut butter, they were walking to the Impala when Sam stopped him with a hand on his arm.

Dean paused and turned toward him, raising his eyebrows, bracing for something he wasn't sure what.

Sam met his eyes, fearless in a way that really shouldn't startle Dean anymore, but he could never stop admiring it. "Y-you still look pretty tired. W-want me to drive?"

Dean took a moment to think about that, about everything it was besides an offer to let him close his eyes a little longer. He relished the freedom of being behind the wheel of his car, had since the day Da—John had handed him the keys. He had both liked and hated that when they'd turned away from Bobby's, he could pretend that it was the car nosing its way toward D.C. and not anything to do with him.

But he was still so fucking damn tired. And there was something perilously close to hope in Sam's eyes.

"Sure, Sam," he said. His hands fumbled just a little as he handed over the keys. "Just head wherever you want. I could use a few more winks."

He didn't really think that he'd sleep, but he was out not ten minutes after they left the motel lot.

He jerked awake when Sam braked the Impala neatly outside a Mom 'n Pop diner called, creatively, "Mam 'n Pops." Dean blinked blearily at the sign, pretty sure he shouldn't have to think about it as hard as he was.

"Why're we stopping?" he asked, fumbling with the seat belt Sam must have wrapped over him while he was out.

Sam shrugged. "I was hungry."

And that, probably more than anything, made Dean give a tired grin and slide a hand over to open the door. "Good enough for me."

The place was the sort of greasy spoon where Dean felt comfortable. The waitress wore, over her street clothes, a stained apron emblazoned with the restaurant's logo, and chewed gum while she took their order of a double-decker burger and fries for Dean and a tuna-salad on rye with a fruit cup for Sam.

After she walked away for Dean's coffee and Sam's Coke, Sam looked down, fiddling with the heavy paper napkin. "Dean, I think that maybe we should start looking for a hunt, if you're u-up to it."

Dean blinked at him. "If I'm up...yeah, I guess with the injury and...yeah, I could see how you'd think I'd be a little slow on the trigger." He thought about it for a second, sipping at the water that had come with their table, and then nodded. "Yeah, I think I'd be okay. You up for it, Sam?"

Sam nodded and shrugged in the same motion, eyes still on Dean. "It's just a flesh wound, so I should—why are you laughing?"

"Nothing." Dean wiped at his face. There was nothing there, but it felt like something had broken through anyway, like he'd walked through a cobweb and could brush away the strands. "Just, remind me sometime to show you Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

Sam's mouth quirked. "So you think a hunt would be okay?"

"Yeah. Maybe something slow and toothless. I'll call Bobby, maybe he can rustle us up a nice ghost, some kind of haunting, nothing that the...you know, not something no one's ever laid eyes on before. You notice anything on the internet that would fit the bill?"

"I've been kind of distracted," Sam said, with a twist of a smile. "And B-Bobby's internet wasn't that fast."

"I've been after him to get it revved, but he always says it's just fine."

The waitress returned in a few minutes, sliding the plates down in front of them, asking them if they wanted anything else, and then walking away well before they could answer. Dean snorted toward her retreating back (the place was crowded, but not that crowded). He was about to take a bite of his more-grease-than-beef burger when his eyes skimmed over Sam's plate, and he frowned and put the burger down.

"Didn't you order tuna?"

Sam looked at the ham and cheese on white bread in his hands and chewed thoughtfully. "Yeah," he said at last. "I guess I did."

Dean sighed. "They screwed up your order." He leaned back, raised his hand, and looked pointedly at their waitress, who was taking another order three tables down.

"Dean—"

"No, look. They're going to take that and bring back what you wanted. That's their job, not that anybody seems to know it around here."

"Dean, don't," Sam said, just as their waitress sauntered back to their table.

"Is there a problem?" she asked, looking at Dean as though she knew perfectly well that there was a problem and really didn't have time to deal with his crap.

Pointing at Sam's plate, Dean began, "Well, unless you guys are breeding a whole new kind of tuna back there—"

"It's fine," Sam said, loud enough to drown him out. He pulled the plate closer and glared over the waitress's shoulder as though she were coming to take away his firstborn. "It's the best ham and cheese sandwich I've ever had, I love it, I don't want anything else. I don't really like tuna. This is an excellent meal, thank you." He spat out the last words like bullets, and, after blinking in stunned confusion for a moment, their waitress said, "Okay," and backed away.

Dean stared at him, feeling stunned and unbalanced, as though he'd hit the Impala's brakes hard enough to throw himself against the wheel. "Sam..." He hesitated, as Sam bent his head over his plate and poked moodily at his fruit cup. "Sorry," he said at last. "Didn't mean to go all super-controlling asshole on you."

Sam still wouldn't look at him, but the tense way his jaw was set was nice to see. Finally, he lifted his head, though Dean knew he had to force himself to do so. "Don't do that, Dean. It's food. Re—good food, there's nothing wrong with it. I don't want anyone in trouble over it."

Dean swallowed. "Hey. They wouldn't have—nobody's gonna be fired over a tuna sandwich. It happens."

Sam shrugged. "It's not worth the trouble. They would have just—thrown this one away. I don't want two. I don't want them to waste it. Can we please just talk about the h-hunt or s-something?"

"Yeah. Sure," Dean said. They kept poking at their food, but they didn't actually talk. They'd both lost most of their appetite, and Dean, wishing that he could figure out how to get them back to the easy banter (though, come to think of it, there hadn't been all that much of that lately either), eventually gave up, got up, and helped himself to a couple of styrofoam to-go boxes. He wasn't sure that their waitress, now chatting with another set of customers that she clearly knew and one guy that she might have been dating, even noticed.

On their way out, Sam cradling their to-go boxes, stopped by the Impala's door. "Dean, I'm s-sorry, I shouldn't have— talked to you like that—"

"No no no," Dean said, stopping short and turning to face him. "No, that is one of the things you do not get to apologize for. Seriously, Sam. Calling me on my bullshit is something I want you to do a lot, okay?" He leaned against the Impala's warm hood, one hand sliding as close to Sam as it could get with the car between them. "I told you," he said, with a wink. "It gets me all hot under the collar."

Sam's grin was easy and bright (if shadowed around the edges), and Dean realized that maybe in the last few days since...well, since the injury and his forgetting, he'd missed that.

They found a hunt in the snug little town of South Boston, Virginia, just shy of the North Carolina border. A string of semi-mysterious deaths following an estate sale had all the markings of a haunted object or curse.

Sam was the one who suggested splitting up. They had a list of potential witnesses as long as the Impala's bumper and still only a handful of clues as to what was killing people, or how it chose its targets. The victims weren't falling into a particular type, or dying in a particular place. There were some common denominators among the various death locations, families, and artifacts in the victims' homes, but in a town with as much history as South Boston had, that wasn't hard to manage. So Sam's suggestion had seemed reasonable: he'd sift through the dusty archives of the two-story library while Dean made the rounds of the traumatized civilian survivors and witnesses. That way Dean could move, question, chase, and Sam could apply his focus and patience to the books, and they'd cover a heck of a lot more ground.

But it wasn't the best arrangement. For one, Dean missed Sam's steady presence as soon as he dropped him off in the morning, but he knew that this was the fastest way to wrap up the hunt (and knew too that he wouldn't have been able to sit still long enough to go through all the records that they would need to cover, not with restless adrenaline still itching under his skin from the enforced stillness of his injury and...everything). He managed to resist picking up his cell until it was a quarter to noon and he was swinging back to that side of town so they could catch some lunch.

"Hey Sam, how's it shaking? Any luck?"

"Hey Dean—hold on." Sam's voice was soft, almost a whisper. Dean heard the rustle and shift of the phone moving away from Sam's ear, a couple steps, and then a thump. "Dean? I had to step outside, they weren't happy when the phone went off and kept...yeah. It's better out here."

Dean frowned. "Anyone giving you hassles? Because I can be there in like—"

But he was cut off by Sam's short laugh. "No, they just didn't want me to make noise. It's really quiet, kinda nice in there. I've found a lot, though I don't know how much is going to be helpful yet. I'm going to have to run it past your witness reports."

"Sounds good. I guess that's what libraries are for, right?" Dean had to smile. "So, you ready for some chow, Sammy? I thought we could try that Mexican place we passed earlier."

"Actually—" Sam paused. Dean could imagine him ducking his head, scuffing his feet on the edge of the concrete stairs. "I went down to the corner to get a sub. And a Sprite. I thought—I mean, you're not done yet, are you?"

"Uh—no, nah, that last granny talked forever about her grandkids, and her kids, and her kids' kids that somehow aren't her grandkids, and her kids' dogs until I was about falling asleep, before throwing in there that they haven't owned that house on Barrigan Street for about ten years and change. I barely avoided keeling over from boredom the whole time and learned pretty much squat. There's always one like her that'll talk your ear off and not say much."

"Ask the next one about the Rockwells. They seem to be showing up a lot in the records. Hey, maybe we can have Mexican tonight. You can keep going while you're on a roll with the grannies. I mean, if you want. I'm kind of in the middle of one of the archive books they don't let you check out so I don't really want...I mean, if you want me to... I would've liked to have lunch with you."

Dean was still smiling, drumming his fingers lightly on the steering wheel. "Nah, it's cool, Sam. We'll have Mexican tonight and catch up. Keep plugging away, and call me if you get any other names or new leads. Or, you know, anytime, if you want."

"I will. Dean—"

"Yeah?"

He heard Sam sigh against the phone, soft and relaxed. "It's a nice day."

Dean looked out the window at the blue sky and picturesque oaks shading Main Street. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

Once he'd hung up, Dean cranked up the radio and sang along while beating time on the wheel. Usually he felt nothing but disgust for classic rock stations that played Bon Jovi, but today was an exception. Sure, he'd miss Sam for lunch, and that kind of sucked because he'd been looking forward to seeing his kid.

But instead of waiting for Dean to remind him to eat or anything, Sam had walked away on his own from where Dean had left him, to buy food without Dean telling him to, because he had wanted to eat. Everything about today rocked as hard as Hendrix on a Stratocaster.

He ended up grabbing food to-go from the local Mickey D's, and then hit up the next few names on his list. Witness One from the second death wasn't home, Witness Two was about as useful as Granny had been, and Dean got lost trying to find the third place, eating the last handful of cold fries from the bag and grumbling under his breath. There was no way in hell a town of this size needed to have a Misty Meadow Road and a Misty Meadow Drive. It was fucking redundant.

So on his third circuit through the edge of town, he pulled up at the same old stoplight (the town had a total of three) and scowled at the red light. It was the longest damn stoplight he'd met in the last six states and he knew he'd be there a while, dammit.

Waiting and not really excited about trying to find the good old Misty Meadow Whatever-the-heck, he glanced over at the dinky motel at the side of the road.

He had decided to put Sam and him up in the classier joint across town, but the Blue Oaks Motel, with its chipping blue paint and faded red doors, each room with its own pull-up parking space in the lot, reminded him of the string of rooms that had framed his childhood. Heck, and his adulthood, for that matter. He was trying, dammit, to do better for Sam, but he could understand sometimes John's struggle over using ASC money to spring for a better place, or scraping by on what they had.

Then all the good vibes he'd gotten from his call with Sam (not even the frustration of a thousand useless witnesses could take off that buzz) turned to cold dread.

A black truck was parked in the motel lot.

It gleamed a perfect, predatory ebony in the sunlight, the plates just a little too worn to match the gleaming bumper, an unmarked Sierra Grande, in every way identical to the one John Winchester drove.

The cars honking behind him snapped Dean forward to see that the light had changed. He slammed on the gas and almost rear-ended the jeep in front of him when it slowed down to turn into a Pick 'n Save just past the light. He turned hard into the first driveway he saw, not giving a damn if it were private or public property, if he should be aware of a goddamn dog. The second after he parked, his shaking fingers were fumbling out his phone, sliding over the numbers before he remembered the speed-dial for Sam's phone.

When Sam answered before the second ring, Dean didn't pause to try to keep his voice down, control it, think of a way to keep from scaring Sam or any fucking thing because they may not have that kind of time. "Don't go outside. Don't leave. Where—where are you right now?"

After a moment, Sam answered, voice quiet and tight. "Library. Archive room. What's wrong?"

Dean sucked in a breath, pressing his hand to his forehead, trying to think when it was fucking hard even to keep his hands steady on the phone, the phone to his ear, his breathing quiet enough so he could hear Sam when he spoke. "You need to move. Go to the children's section. Stay out of sight of the front door, of any windows, if you can see him, he can—they can see you and—just wait for me. I'll be there in five. Don't move unless—just call me if you have to, but stay there."

"Okay, Dean. I will."

Urgent as it was, hard as the adrenaline rode Dean to do something, Sam still hung up first. It was hard to be the first one to close that line of connection when—he couldn't finish the thought.

He made it to the library in four, retaining just enough sense to scout out the block—the Impala was a big fucking beacon, John couldn't miss it if he were anywhere near—before bringing Sam out a side door and jogging back to the alley where he'd parked. He kept his head down, trying to keep behind dumpsters and turns when he could, and Sam ducked his head without being told, followed Dean's instruction to lie down flat on the Impala's seat without a word or question, like this was something they practiced every day. He left Sam in the car with a pistol and a knife while he dashed into their room for their duffels and computer bag, holding the shotgun at the ready the whole time and caring fuck-all who saw as long as it wasn't him.

Only ten minutes later and fifteen miles outside city limits, did he tell Sam it was okay to sit up.

Sam settled back against the seat and didn't ask questions. Dean knew he should offer some explanation, tell Sam why they'd bolted like a couple of jumpy rabbits—fuck, he was scared, but that was just fucking smart when you were up against a fucking Winchester—but he couldn't, jaw locked tight. Hard enough to keep his eyes on the highway, burning past other vehicles like they were standing still. At some point he realized they were going twenty over the limit, but he just leaned harder on the gas. Fast, faster, fastest, never fucking fast or far enough. How far would they have to go to be safe from Winchester?

But every mile he put between them and—fuck, it was just a truck, he didn't even really know that his dad had been in that town, hunting them down—every mile just tightened the pressure on his chest, fed the feeling he was trapped, running into a trap, unable to escape no matter how fast he ran.

He would face any of the bastards who had hurt Sam, down to his fucking relations, he would face them head-on, bare-handed, point-blank, without hesitation. But from John fucking Winchester he ran. And he would run every day, for the rest of his life, if he had to. Because he had learned everything he knew about hunting monsters from his father, and there was nothing he could do to keep Sam safe from that man if he could catch them. John didn't make empty threats, and that last, it was a hell of a promise.

You're not my fucking son. I see you, I'm putting it down and you with it.

Sam was a tight, silent figure beside him, one hand on Dean's knee, the other clenched in his lap. Dean knew his kid was there, far more conscious of Sam than of the mile markers zipping past, one after another, but it took a while before he realized Sam was saying, quietly but urgently, "Dean. Dean."

It took an effort to unlock his jaw, get his throat to work, and when it did, his voice sounded nothing like it did comforting Sam in the night. "Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam didn't flinch. His grip tightened on Dean's knee. "Dean, there's a r-r-rest stop coming up. I, I think we should stop. We're almost si-sixty miles out of South Boston. I think...I think we can stop, just for a minute."

Fuck. Sam had no fucking idea, but he could see how wigged out Dean was, he could see how Dean had the pedal flat to the floor, Dean's grip on the wheel, how little fucking control Dean had. And Sam was telling him to stop.

Dean jerked the wheel to take them into the right-hand lane, then switched to the brakes, applying them slow and easy, all the way until they rolled into the rest stop.

He pulled into an empty parking space, killed the engine, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw fireworks bursting across the inside of his lids. He still couldn't talk to Sam. What was he going to say? See, this is what a shit excuse I have for a father. This is how I've endangered you. Ain't it nice to be a fucking Winchester?

Sam sat, just breathing, for a long minute after the Impala had come to a stop. Then he reached for his seatbelt (kid still wore a fucking seatbelt) and reached with both hands for Dean's. It took a second for Dean to be able to release his fists, to open them enough for Sam's touch. Sam held his hands as though they were fragile, delicate, likely as a wild bird to fly out of his hands. Dean swallowed and looked down at his fingers, broken a handful of times, scarred and callused and just about the same size as Sam's. He closed his eyes tight when Sam leaned close and his chin brushed Dean's shoulder.

"Hey," he whispered. "Hey, we're okay. It's okay. We're safe, you got us out. We're going to be okay, Dean."

That was the fucking last straw. That Sam—his Sam, who had suffered months and years in that fucking hellhole, torture and shit he couldn't even imagine even in the nightmares that tried some nights to show him what a bastard Dean Winchester was, hunting and whoring and fucking around before even trying to get Sam out—was comforting him, because Dean's fucking father would kill them both if he saw them. Not just Dean (he could fucking well understand sometimes that he fucked up, maybe that he deserved a hell of a lot more shit than had come to him) but Sam, whom Dean didn't deserve to begin with and had done fuck-all to deserve that kind of death.

He might have tried to say something—he didn't know what, Sam's name at least—but all that came out was a choked grunt, and he twisted so he could wrap his arms around Sam, pulling him close, and closer, and tight as he could get. It wasn't words to tell him that Dean never deserved to have him, that Sam deserved someone without a fuckton of failures and a psycho father to boot, but Dean wasn't capable of anything else.

It was a mark of the progress they'd made that even though there was nothing gentle about the embrace—Dean was fucking clinging and he would be ashamed of that later, when he felt like his world wasn't going to fall apart with a shotgun blast—Sam didn't tense up, only shifted enough to wiggle his own arms out to hold him, tight, in turn.

Dean pressed his face against Sam's head, breathing in the smell of his hair—even the little hairs tickling his chin a reminder that Sam was here, not back in Freak Camp or lost or bleeding out in a parking lot—and maybe rubbing the dampness (fucking sweat or rain or some shit) from his cheeks. Then he kissed Sam's temple, long and hard. And he said it, because if they were both going to die tomorrow, or some day soon, Dean had to know that Sam knew, because he was the best thing in Dean's life. And just because Dean couldn't fucking take care of him, keep him safe like he should, didn't make it any less true.

"I love you."

Sam froze—he didn't stiffen, just stopped the slow motions of his hands over Dean's back with a hitch in his breath—then he pressed close again, turning his head to nuzzle at Dean's neck, and Dean sighed, closing his eyes. Okay. That was okay. He hadn't expected Sam to respond. He knew Sam wanted to stay with him, and, yeah, maybe because Sam didn't know anything better, but now he knew he was loved. That shoddy truth was the best Dean had to give him.

They kept driving, though Dean eventually dropped the Impala's speed down to his usual ten over. They skipped dinner—there were power bars in the back seat for Sam, if he needed anything, and Dean couldn't think about pulling over for some nosh, not that close to the threat—and didn't stop until they were two states away and two hours shy of midnight. The motel they stopped at was plain, but serviceable, on the edge of a town with maybe 800 souls. He parked in front long enough to get a room, then drove the Impala around to park in the back before they walked with the bags to their room. It had a view of the parking lot's entrance and a quick escape hallway to their getaway. Sam didn't ask why they'd parked in the back, just as he hadn't questioned why Dean had yanked them out of the middle of a hunt. Dean wished he could feel flattered that Sam trusted him that much, but he was afraid it was just another symptom of the mindfuck he'd received in camp. That didn't stop him from taking Sam's hand in the parking lot, and not letting go until he had shut and bolted their door.

Locks thrown, curtains closed—except for a lean slip of space where hopefully they would be able to see John before he saw them—and bags in the corner, Dean fell backward onto the single big bed, arm crossed over his eyes. After a moment of silence, he heard Sam shuffling around. When he lifted his arm just enough to see (fuck, don't let the kid be crying, Dean couldn't take them both falling apart right now), he saw Sam laying a thin line of salt before the windows and door. He had thought he was burned out today, as far as emotions went, but that sight made his chest ache enough that he re-covered his eyes and swallowed convulsively.

He listened to Sam unzipping a bag in the bathroom—probably laying out their toiletries out like a surgeon's tools, toothbrushes and paste in neat parallel lines on the left, combs and razors on the right—and a moment later, the bed dipped beside him. Slowly, as though he still thought Dean would bolt from any sudden movements, Sam stretched out next to him, body overlapping his. He tucked his head onto Dean's shoulder and rested his hand, ever so lightly, over Dean's heart. "We're okay," he whispered, as he had hours earlier. "You and me. We can—we take care of each other."

Freeing his hand, Dean ran his fingers over the back of Sam's head. Sam shivered slightly, and Dean dropped his hand to cover Sam's over his chest. He could almost believe that. It was easy to forget sometimes, the way Sam flinched away from radio ads and clueless civilian conversation, that he had a reservoir of strength that Dean couldn't tap and shouldn't underestimate. He could almost believe that, together, they were a match for John Winchester.

Rubbing his thumb back and forth slowly across Sam's hand, he answered, not because he believed that, but because it was something they both needed to hear. "Yeah, Sam. We will."

Sam shifted, and Dean thought he felt Sam's lips press through his shirt. Then he said, very soft: "What about—the case? Who's going to take care of the...the artifact? Or ghost? I th-think, from the r-research it was an artifact, or s-set of them. Who's going to s-stop it now?"

Dean exhaled. Of the two of them, Sam was always the better, the more human and compassionate. He hadn't forgotten. "You're right," Dean said, sitting up and reluctantly slipping out from under Sam's arm. Sam watched him, tense and worried, while Dean dug for the phone in his jacket.

Dean stopped by the door, resting a hand against the doorframe. He should leave, he really should, so Sam wouldn't have to worry so much, so he wouldn't have to hear, so that Dean could break down if he had to without being witnessed by the person he cared about most in the world, but in the end, he couldn't. In the hallway, he wouldn't be able to see the road, the parking lot, Sam, wouldn't have even that hint of warning that could save their lives, and so he couldn't make himself reach for the door to bring this conversation outside.

He tucked himself instead next to the bathroom door, someplace where he could see every corner of the room, but had enough protection just the same (it didn't matter if he knew that the position wouldn't save him or Sam in the long run. He was doing what he could now to hold back the fear, keep the jitters where they belonged; he wondered, fleetingly, if this was what Sam felt like all the time, so fucking afraid of his past coming back to lay hands on him), and hit the speed dial for Bobby's. He held the phone tight to his ear, tight enough that it hurt, and tried to breathe waiting for him to pick up.

"Singer Salvage, need junk, we've got it by the trunkful."

Dean cleared his throat. "Hey, Bobby."

"Hey, kid. How's the leg treating you?"

"Yeah, it's fine, we're fine. Listen, I need you to pass the word for someone to pick up a hunt in South Boston, Virginia. It looks like some kind of haunted object or ghost-related death-curse thing, possibly an artifact bounty, but I wouldn't count on it. It's definitely a repeating pattern, so someone needs to get down there ASAP. We drove in a couple days ago, didn't get much done, but I can tell you which witnesses you don't need to hit up."

"Okay," Bobby said. "I got the info. But that begs the question, why aren't you boys wrapping it up?"

Dean pressed his lips in a line, shoulders hunching in a way that, even though he was aware of it, he couldn't stop. "We had to clear out."

"O-kay." There was a pause, where Dean could hear Bobby's breathing, could almost hear him thinking. Then, "How's Sam doing?"

Dean rubbed his face. "He's good. Really, really good, he's doing—great. No, seriously, this isn't about him, Bobby, this has nothing to do with him."

"Uh-huh," Bobby drawled. "Then why're you bolting from a basic case? You do something stupid, like K-O the sheriff's kid?"

"Nah, nothing like...nothing like that." Dean rubbed at his mouth and braced himself. "Hey, one hunter you definitely shouldn't...I mean, do you know where my—you know where John is?" As much as he was trying not to watch, out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam stiffen.

"Why, you got something you wanna say to his face?"

"No," Dean said shortly. "I just need to know, Bobby. It's important. Like, even if you can...can you rule out Virginia?"

"Hm." Dean heard a few papers shifting, the thump of a book. "We don't talk, you understand, but last I heard of him he was down in New Mexico hunting some kind of fire monster. That was...about a week ago. That help?"

"Maybe. That doesn't rule out...anyway, just keep me posted, Bobby."

"All right, I'll keep an eye out. Not like I don't got enough shit to do. So what're you and the brain up to now, if you're done clearing out?"

"Damned if I know."

"That's what I figured. Well, how about you swing back around to the Dust Bowl, hit a couple basic hauntings I've had on my list forever, and hit my place in time for Thanksgiving? Bet Sam's never had one of those, right? Hell, I'll even spring for a Butterball."

"Seriously?" Dean cradled the phone to his ear, glancing back toward Sam, sitting rigid and silent on their bed. "You're not sick of us yet, old man?"

"Nah, saves me worrying when I see your ugly mug every once in a while. And watch yourself, kid, I can still kick your ass."

Dean laughed, without much heart. "Sure, Bobby, we'll be there." If we're still around.

He hung up and tucked his phone into his pocket before he could force himself to look Sam in the eye.

And then he felt his stomach drop, because Sam was staring at him, eyes wide in his plaster-white face, hands gripping the sheets like they were the only thing keeping him from being swept away. "Sam, did you—"

"Y-y-y-you s-s-saw your f-f-f-father?"

Dean wasn't sure that he had an excuse for the lapse, but only then did he realize that the conversation with Bobby was the first time that he had told Sam what they were running from.

"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sam, I'm so sorry."

"W-W-W-Winchester?" Sam's chest was working like a bellows, short, sharp desperate breaths that he didn't seem to notice. His eyes, fixed on Dean's, showed terrified, barely controlled panic.

"I—maybe. I saw him, maybe, okay?" Dean moved forward, hands extended, but didn't dare reach out all the way, not sure in this moment what Sam would do if he tried his usual calming tactics. "Not even him, just his truck, but it was his truck, the exact model, and I didn't know...yeah, I ran because I thought it was him."

They were inches from a panic attack, and he wasn't sure this time if he'd be able to calm Sam down or if he'd join him in the meltdown and the paralyzing dread, but Sam got himself a little more under control, two slow, labored breaths easing down his borderline hyperventilation, and one hand released the covers to reach for Dean and pull him closer. But instead of letting Dean sit, Sam used him to pull himself to his feet, then released him, paced two steps away to the window, then two steps back.

"Fuck," he said. "Fucking fuck. But—just the truck, you said?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "There have to be, what, fucking hundreds of those?"

"Thousands," Sam agreed. "Maybe thousands. Might not be him."

"Yeah, probably not him. And we're here, you know, so..."

"Yeah." Sam nodded. His hands twisted at his sides. "So it probably wasn't W-Winchester—I mean, your dad."

"That doesn't matter anymore," Dean said. He found his own hands clenching at his sides.

Sam stopped. Stopped dead still. And then nodded his head sharply once. "Oh." Then, "We'll be okay. You ran, so we'll be okay."

"Yeah." Dean agreed. "He's...he's not going to follow us here."

"Right. We'll be fine."

Sam had said that more than a dozen times since they'd bolted from South Boston earlier that day. This was the first time that Dean suspected Sam couldn't wholeheartedly believe it, either.

It took them a week to get over the rough edges of the fear. They hit Kentucky, Illinois, and Michigan before Dean stopped jumping at shadows and Sam stopped freezing when a dark-colored truck passed the Impala on the tree-lined highways or a big man in a leather jacket came out of a gas station as they pulled up.

Dean would have liked to pretend that they were doing okay, but he couldn't shake the feeling that these ghosts of his past were following him: first Mom, then Dad, the forgotten and the threat. He knew that was a bunch of shit he wouldn't remember in the morning if he trusted himself right now to get drunk, but he couldn't throw himself in the sweet oblivion of alcohol while keeping two hands tight on the wheel.

By the time they reached Sioux Falls, they were both on edge, nerves strung tight, but Dean would have been lying if he'd said it didn't feel damn good to see that familiar trucker's cap and know that someone else was going to be watching his back. And damn good, too, not to be alone as the weather took a turn toward the cold.

The boys pulled up the day before Thanksgiving, Bobby drawn out of his house by the Impala's familiar purr. He stood on the porch, shotgun in one hand (there were a fuckton of things in the world that knew how to steal a familiar car and drive it to a man's house, and not all of them were Winchesters) and lifted the other hand in greeting. The boys got out of the car, but dawdled by their doors until Bobby realized he wasn't the only paranoid bastard in the yard and laid the shotgun on the porch table. Then they moved toward the steps, shoulder to shoulder.

They looked good, objectively, a couple of tall boys in plaid shirts, jackets and jeans, walking easily up toward his house. Dean's injury had clearly healed clean, judging by how he had neither the limp from a continuing injury nor the deliberate stiffness of a man seeking to hide how much it pained him.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean said. He looked tired and pale, a slight shadow around his eyes, but that didn't seem to be from any kind of infection or long-term wound. And Sam met Bobby's eyes and smiled. He had that same tired look in his eyes, but any fear there was not directed toward Bobby.

He wasn't sure what to do with that, honestly, but it seemed like a good first step to be relieved.

"Hey, Dean, Sam. You boys can toss your crap in the guest room, grab a soda, and get your asses to the kitchen."

Sam blinked a few times, but Dean laughed, tired. "Bobby, I think you're running early on Turkey Day."

"I'm not making turkey yet. Got the pie dough in the fridge. It's got to set a bit before we add the pumpkin."

"Bobby!" Dean's eyes widened, the extra years brought on by exhaustion disappearing with the almost childlike delight in his face. "You're making pie?"

Bobby shrugged. "Why the hell not, it's Thanksgiving. And I figured the best way to get you thanking me was to make some pie." Bobby grinned, and the expression was slowly echoed in Dean's and Sam's faces. That felt good, even though he could worry about these boys sometimes, worry about the tension he saw in their hands (hovering, ready to grab the pistol Dean kept in his jacket or the knife at Sam's belt), the way they watched their surroundings even though they were in his house and he had some of the best damn wards good favors and clean living could buy. But they were here, now, and that was the best he could do. And it was damned good to put that kind of excitement in their eyes. "All right, enough talk, you two idjits better toss your gear and help me, or you're gonna be eating cold beef jerky instead of the twelve-pound turkey I was planning on."

"You're a twelve-pound turkey," Dean muttered, but he was still grinning, and he took off down the hallway without another word, Sam trailing in his wake with his own bag.

When they reappeared, Bobby asked Sam, "So, you got the scoop yet about Thanksgiving?"

Sam shrugged, self-conscious but miles from the obvious tension and fear he would have shown from the question even last visit. "I've r-read about the first Thanksgiving, in my American history book, and Dean's told me about all the food. And we saw a couple Thanksgiving special episodes on TV." Despite how Sam tried to hide it, Bobby could sense his anticipation.

"Yep, that about covers it, I think. Time to figure out if you're a cream corn or bread stuffing man."

He told the kids—carefully—what to do, and they mashed up the homemade potatoes and mixed the boxed stuffing while they interspersed time in front of the TV, watching whatever local game was on, with a couple animated rounds of cards. That night Bobby shot the breeze with Dean and a couple of beers, while Sam almost casually worked on a history text on the couch.

Thanksgiving Day dawned bright and cold. After Bobby corralled his dogs in the back, Dean brought Sam outside to explain the rules of football (with a lot of seemingly casual arm touches; Bobby might have been nearly as old as Methuselah, but he could tell when someone was getting a little closer than necessary to adjust a throwing stance), and when they came back in, Bobby had hot chocolate (and peppermint schnapps for himself and Dean) waiting for them.

Dean took a big swallow. "This is damn fine, Bobby. Sam, you got peppermint in yours?"

Sam shook his head, curiosity in his eyes. Dean leaned forward and then, remembering himself just in time, pulled back a little more abruptly. "I'll have to...let you try some later."

"Oh, that reminds me—I came across something that might be useful for you, Sam." Bobby pulled himself up out of the couch and went over to his desk. He'd been keeping the roll of tape in the top drawer for the last week, just so he wouldn't forget when the boys passed through again. He came back to the couch, settled, and offered the tape to Sam.

Sam accepted it hesitantly. Bobby didn't miss the rapid blinking before he accepted, something very close to shock crossing his face before he took the roll. "Thank you," he said, quietly but sincerely. He turned the beige roll over once, picking slightly at the end. "W-what's it f-for?"

"Well—" Bobby cleared his throat, keeping one eye on Sam examining the present, another on Dean edging over the kid's shoulder to see what he had, and about half an eye on the timer for the potatoes. "I was thinking—it could come in handy to be able to cover that tattoo when you're in public. It's not exactly a gang sign, but people can still know what it is. And if you're someplace down south when it's frickin' hot, it might even draw attention if you're wearing turtlenecks. That tape's specially designed to go on skin, advertised not even to come off in the shower, as long as you don't pick at it." He'd struggled with making sure he got Sam's skin tone right, but as the boy held the roll in his hands, it was close enough that he didn't think anyone would question it, not the way they'd question an ASC serial number.

Sam jerked back, eyes wide, astonishment almost leading him to drop the roll, but a better word for Dean would have been delighted. He grabbed the tape from Sam's loose hands, undisguised glee on his face.

"Holy shit, Bobby, this is fucking awesome!"

Sam turned back toward Dean, smiling hesitantly into Dean's big grin. "It's v-very nice, but is it...l-legal?"

"Of course it's fucking legal," Dean said hotly. "Why wouldn't it be? No law saying you need to be flashing your chest at any ASC assholes that come along. You're out of that...you're not there, and you're not fucking going back, so it's got nothing to do with you anymore. Hey, wanna try it out?" Dean stretched out a piece of tape and grinned, Sam smiling tentatively back at him.

Bobby almost looked away from the emotion in Sam's face, the determination in Dean's, but he couldn't. Good as those boys were together, his ingrained hunter instincts had a hard time not watching them for inconsistencies, signs that something was going wrong. He was too aware of how easy it was to screw up a life.

Sam undid his top two buttons, glancing in Bobby's direction. But his eyes locked on Dean's face while Dean carefully applied the tape. Bobby almost expected the kid to stick his tongue out to get it over the numbers the way he wanted. If he hadn't been watching, hadn't been paying as much attention as he was, he would have missed Sam's quiet words. "It won't really go away, you know," Sam whispered, while Dean's fingers smoothed the tape over his pale skin. "You can't change what—you can't take it off."

Dean scowled, muttering back, "But this works. This is better, right? Don't tell me you want to keep bundling up in flannel when it's blazing hot out."

Sam's lips twisted in what was almost a smile. "I didn't really notice. I've had...it's not a problem."

"Problem or no, it's a nice fucking thing to have a solution. C'mon, Sammy, now you don't have to worry about tugging your shirt down. Or me pulling it too far down." He grinned and wrapped up the tape, tucking it back into Sam's hand. "Let me enjoy this, okay?"

"You're right," Sam said, his smile still small but happy, and he directed his next words to Bobby. "This is—thank you, it'll be very helpful."

"Don't mention it," Bobby said gruffly. "Wasn't any trouble to pick up." It had taken him a couple weeks of side-research, actually, to find a decent manufacturer that had exactly what he wanted, but it was no trouble at all compared to the nightmare he could imagine if the wrong person ever saw that tattoo.

"How m-much did it cost?" Sam asked.

Bobby waved a hand in dismissal. "Couple o' cents, don't worry about it. Consider it an early Christmas present." Sam flushed again at that, dropping his chin until it almost touched the newly placed tape.

Dean beamed gratefully at Bobby, leaning against Sam's chair as he rested his hand on the back of Sam's neck. Bobby shifted his gaze out the window. Small gestures like these meant little enough compared to what he hadn't done for the kid in the past, but he was trying.

"Anywhere else you want to put it?" Sam asked Dean, tilting his head back so he could look into Dean's eyes. "There's other places you don't like to look at." He twitched his right hand, simultaneously referencing his forearm and torso. "But if you want to cover up all of them, we'd need a h-hell of a lot more tape." Sam laughed, slightly, and tucked his head against Dean's shoulder.

Bobby wasn't so stupid he didn't know what Sam was talking about, the kinds of scars a man could pick up just doing the job, much less being surrounded by a pack of sadists for years like Sam had been. He watched Dean's face fall with the same realization, torn between sick understanding and the desire not to wipe any kind of smile off Sam's face. Finally, Dean huffed out a breath and kissed Sam on the top of his head. "No, we're sticking to the basics. You don't need to cover up one inch. Fuck, you don't have to cover up a damn thing if you don't want to, I know you and you're one hundred percent awesome."

Whatever scars Sam carried, whatever he'd gone through, that was part of him. Bobby was glad that Dean had at least some grasp of that, complete idjit that he could be. But he felt it was probably a decent time to change the subject.

"What do you boys say to cracking open that turkey?" he asked, already levering himself up. "It's probably been done for the last half hour, but I don't think that'll do the old bird any harm."

Dean laughed and nudged Sam up off his shoulder. "Damn, Bobby, you make it sound so appetizing."

"Don't mock me, kid, until you've tried it. You ever had a home-roasted turkey before, Sam?"

The kid—Sam—looked up at him with wide eyes. "No?"

Of course he hadn't. Bobby smiled. "Well then, you're in for a treat."

Later, when the turkey was more than half consumed, the dishes were cleaned, and the serotonin had laid them all out for a nap, Dean got up before Sam and went to find Bobby where he was gazing meditatively toward the Thanksgiving game on TV.

Dean paused in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. When Bobby looked up, Dean grinned.

"I could've kissed you for that roll of tape, Bobby."

"Glad you found the strength to restrain yourself," Bobby said dryly.

Dean smiled and raised his hands. "I did, but just barely. Seriously, it's perfect. I think it'll help Sam a lot, and with more than just covering up those damn numbers. I'm doing what I can, but it's—it helps when someone else treats him like a person. And I mean, someone who knows, not just some damn civvy who doesn't—who's not in the loop. About all that shit."

"It's the least I can do," Bobby said, letting his gaze slide back to the TV. "You've got the recipe down, I'm just adding a little basting. He's made leaps and bounds in these four months, thanks to you. I hardly recognize the kid."

It was Dean's turn to look away, passing a hand over his face. "Trust me, I fucked up plenty along the way. I still do. I mean, sometimes it's stupid stuff, stuff there's no fucking way I could have known about, like, Jesus, oranges, Bobby. But I've pulled some really dumbass moves, too. Shit I should have fucking known about. So, yeah, it's good to see someone else knowing that...that he's on the right track, you know?"

"Well, you're getting it right where it counts. I'm starting to think he'll be okay, in the end."

"Fuck. You really think so?" Dean shook his head, coming over and sinking into the couch beside Bobby. "Sometimes it just feels like every time we make honest-to-God progress, I fuck it up again."

"Dean, that kid's talking to me now, he made a joke about extreme scarring, he's driven hundreds of miles and saved your ass at least twice that you've told me, and we don't talk that much. The first time you showed up here, he wouldn't...well, he wasn't exactly a Chatty Cathy. Tonight I almost had to eat my hat when he sat down with us to play cards without batting an eye."

"Yeah," Dean laughed. "Maybe next time he won't throw the game."

"Damn, I wondered how I pulled off that last hand." Bobby patted him on the shoulder. "Give him time. He's already about a million miles from where you started out."

Dean grinned. "You can say that again."

"A million miles, kid."

What neither of them mentioned was the underlying understanding that there was still a long way to go.