Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. I could never stand the end of "Twigs & Twine & Tasha Banes" because...hypocrisy much, anyone? So I did what I had to do. Fixed it (kind of).
The talk (no, not that one)
This case – damn. They were off their game, they were stupid, all too easy to lull into believing everything was fine, because it had to be, right? And sure, fine didn't happen to the Winchesters, but the Banes kids – why not? Why couldn't one single family be okay, even if they got involved with hunting and magic and the whole nine yards? It had been so...idyllic, really. That should have been their clue things were wrong. And now they had more bodies to burn. Or maybe not.
Because the déjà vu had been so fucking strong, from the very beginning, Dean could have drowned in it. Missing parent. Dead parent. Dead sibling, and Max was already blaming himself for it, when he shouldn't. He should have blamedthem. They were supposed to be more experienced. They were supposed to know how to handle this shit. But also, as an aside, fuck witches. Banes excepted, of course.
And there was Sammy, awkward as hell – not that Dean was faring much better – mumbling, "We'll, uh, go get some supplies. We have to, uh – "
"Actually, you go, Sam, please." Sam frowned, but nodded, and Dean knew he wouldn't exactly rush back. Sam would have understood that Dean planned to – talk Max round, or something. And the very fact that he wasn't dumping the empathize duty on Sam as usual, odd as it was, would make his brother give him all the room he could wish for.
Max didn't want him here, instead. Not that Dean blamed him. The kid had a plan going, and didn't need anyone's judgment. "Don't you think he might need help?"
"Sam's a big boy, he'll manage." He waved the suggestion away. Ok, there was nothing for it. Take the plunge. "Look, I know it's not my business or anything, but as someone who's been there. Buy what you want."
"What?" That had weirded Max out enough to make him listen. Good.
"You only got the one soul. And I don't have to tell you that taking a demon deal is a bad idea. They aren't called demons for being nice. I don't have to get descriptive about hell either, because – let's be honest, right now you don't give a shit. No amount of details on torture is gonna change what matters...or could they?"
The younger boy's eyes burned with resentment. If Max didn't have bigger things to worry about, Dean had no doubt he'd be attacked for the insinuation. And he'd deserve it.
He nodded sharply. "Thought so. They could have talked my ear off – fuck, they could have given me a preview – and I'd still have signed, and if not for Cas, I'd be a demon now. Oh, yeah, you're going to become a demon eventually, but that's so far in the future that I doubt you care, do you?"
"So you're what? Giving me your blessing? After what you've done?" Max raised an eyebrow, defiant, but his voice was strangled.
"That matters even less, right? No, I'm saying – be smart. You put that ring on, you sell your soul for power. And sure, the power includes the power to keep a sort of mockup of people running. But you were already a witch, so. Selling your soul for that? Stupidest thing you could do, if you ask me. There's no saying you couldn't do something similar with your own magic, anyway. Find a book. Something. You don't need demons involved. But before you start snooping around libraries, starting from hers, you have to decide what you want. Your sister, or a wicker basket? Hate to say, but I've not yet seen proper resurrection – unless you pre-plan your spell, and you didn't – without involvement from either upstairs...or hell. I'll give it to you, maybe the basket option is safest."
"I thought you meant –" Max looked more confused with every word.
"I'm not here to make your choices. It's your soul, man. And being left behind when the hounds come to collect – well, don't expect enthusiasm when people have that to look forward to. Fuck, Sammy threw himself at any demon who would have him afterwards, trying to. Change things, revenge? I don't even know. Accidentally started the apocalypse, at that, but at least you can trust your sister wouldn't. Fuck-ups this size are reserved to the two of us, I'm pretty sure."
"Size doesn't matter." And there, an automatic attempt at smile, because the kid must have used that line in a thousand hook-ups. It turned out more of a grimace, but that was fine.
"Yep." It doesn't have to be a world-ending apocalypse to feel like one. Didn't he know that. God, back back then,Flagstaff had felt like one, and no one was even dying. "Maybe you're saner than I think. You'll cope. You'll mourn. Maybe you're stupider, and you'll put the ring on anyway. Or you'll go research-crazy. Maybe you'll run to the first crossroad, or even find a way to blackmail an angel. Wish I could lend you mine, but Cas picked right now to go MIA and probably get himself into a half-pocalypse of his own." He shook his head. He'd worry about the angel when he had time. "Whatever you do, make sure you won't want to kick yourself for it later. And give us a call sometimes. If you do deal, we'll try to get you out of it without breaking it outright. We have learned a few things in the last ten years, even if today doesn't look like it. But, worst case scenario...you'll have enough regrets. Don't make today become one."
Max offered him a handshake. "I won't. And...thank you." Another fragile, contorted attempt at a smile. As if Dean deserved one. Or thanks. Thanks for what? They'd let the girl die, for chrissake. Still, he shook that hand. What else could he do?
Before things could turn even more awkward, Sam trotted back, with enough wood and gasoline to ….settle the matter. Perfect timing. Actually, too perfect – hope to Chuck his brother hadn't listened in, otherwise there'd be the bitchfit of the year. Because Sam would want to talk Max out of it right now, to make sure at least one person today was saved, when they were too late for that. Way too late. Unless Dean was projecting, hard, and maybe he was, but Max hadn't exactly denied anything, had he?
And damn, he'd feel guilty about this too, but Dean couldn't control the way he automatically turned towards all-too-known footsteps. Or the way his eyes brightened. It was – flaunting, almost, and awful, but. No regrets. He felt bad about at least 70% of the things he'd done or not done in his life, but not that. Never that. If Chuck and Amara had a falling out, and one decided to rush him back in time, with the extra warning that since they messed up the apocalypse, there'd be no Cas fishing him out, no nothing but hell? He'd run to the same fucking crossroad.
The moment Sammy unloaded the cremation supplies, right there in front of the building, it was as if a shutter pulled down behind Max's eyes. And who could blame him, really? Sam even tried to move to build a pyre, way too practiced at this as he was, but the kid's words stopped him. "You're all...kind, but this. I have to. Please, just go."
Sam didn't argue, didn't breathe more than a soft, "Right. Sorry," giving the boy his most empathizing, apologetic puppy look before backtracking, this time with Dean falling in step with him. So his brother's timing was indeed luck...if anything could even be called lucky about this whole mess.
Not another peep out of Sam until they were safe inside Baby, doors closed and engine just starting to purr in comfort, Dean swore, wasn't unexpected. What he said, body pressing hard against the seat, almost as if he'd like to be swallowed by it, was shocking, though. So much so Dean almost failed getting properly back on the road. "You're awesome, you know?"
Dean snorted. Loudly. Awesome, indeed. Today of all days. He could have botched this worse only by getting Sammy killed, too.
"I mean it. Max, he seemed – calmer."
All he allowed himself was a noncommittal, "Maybe." Of course the boy was calmer. He had a plan. Having an end to the grief in sight settles like nothing else.
"I...I wanted to –" Sam didn't have to end that sentence for him to know. Help; soothe; so long as they were together, his baby brother dealt with witnesses' frayed nerves and grieving relatives. Dean followed his lead, every time, and counted himself lucky when he could sneak around to investigate the premises instead. "You'd think I was in his position often enough to know what to say."
Sam's hand squeezed his knee, hard, but Dean wasn't about to complain. Just making sure he was there. Solid. Real. Too many people had fucked with his baby brother's brain. Heck, it was years ago, and Dean himself still hadn't figured out how Lucifer's hallucination had managed to pretend to be him and drive Baby, once. Probably just Sammy's freakishly long limbs ensured he could find him that time, and not just a crumpled, fuming mess of flesh and metal in the middle of the road. Dean'd never begrudge him the odd reassurance. "You know there's nothing to say." Nothing that anyone's gonna care about, anyway. Not unless it's "How do I stop this." Even when it's a lie.
"Especially when it's my fault." It was so soft, and choked, and just – no.
Dean floundered for something to persuade Sam that he was holding the wrong person responsible, damn his brother for being fucking stubborn. Always had been, even as a small child. And then – a random memory, and he turned, smiling, because how can he not when teasing Sammy. "Have you forgotten your Aesop? I know I read you that one."
Sam's head swivelled back to him. "That wine shouldn't have made you drunk." He's frowning, and – now his baby brother is worried about him, wondering if Dean had been slipped something. Please. He might be a walking, breathing failure, but he's not that helpless.
"I'm not drunk. But it's not your fault, either. There was that story about a single stick being easy to break, but a whole bundle of them? Impossible, barehanded. Andthose sticks weren't even fighting back." Eyes back on the road. He wasn't going to crash them. And fine, the fable might have stuck in his brain because – it was literally about a dad trying to teach his sons to stand together, and Dean didn't even need to hear it, never had in his life, but there have been more than a few times when...wouldn't it have been nice if he could have made Samstay with story time?
Wishful thinking aside, he finally got a – belated, as if Sam had considered whether to snap at him instead – huffed laugh from his brother. Sam always sounded so much younger when he laughed. Or possibly they'd just not had a reason to in too long. Life sucked. But the alternative sucked worse.
"Besides, you want to blame someone, blame me. I should have known better than let the fucking witch rant like a second-rate Bond villain." If he'd shot earlier, Alicia wouldn't have had time to worry, or trust the wrong person in the room. Wrong puppet. Whatever.
"Hey, no. She might have had important info. Ask first, shoot later – that's good. You gotta keep doing it. Promise?" He didn't even have to look at Sam to know he was getting the puppy eyes.
Well, there was only one answer to that. "Yeah."
For a while, there was only the engine hum. And as much as he'd despise himself for it later, Sam was at his side, Baby was whole – he could put his self-flagellation off. At least till they arrived at the bunker (and its liquor cabinet). Doom hadn't befallen – well, not them, this time. And he needed to pay attention to the road. It wouldn't do to add "got them in an accident because too busy moping" to his list of regrets.
But Sammy had been ruminating, apparently (when wasn't he?) because out of the blue, he asked, "What did you tell him?"
"Why?" Delay was always a good technique.
"You told me there's nothing to say, but...Max was feeling better, and. I don't know. I just want to learn."
In case Dean had some magic sibling-loss soother, huh? Because of course they were going to die again. They were basically frequent flyers, much to Billie's dismay. But at least Sam was assuming Dean'd die next, and – ok. That was ok. "I'm not even sure what I said. You know me, motor mouth, brain doesn't need to engage half the time. ʻDon't be stupidʼ was in there at some point, I think." There. Obfuscation, but no outright lie. Sam would pick on it otherwise.
"Don't be stupid. Yeah. Because that's real comforting." Sam snorted.
"Doesn't make it a bad idea. Especially if you have to consider – what next?"
"And what's the answer?"
"Trouble. Every damn time."