Chapter 6: No Matter Where You Go

Bobby made better time than anticipated and arrived at the Roadhouse by mid-afternoon the next day. Most of us were already there—Dean and I were in the midst of telling his parents about our plans for the future (which we'd discussed in more detail after getting home last night). Bill and Ellen were understandably sad at the idea of their son moving so far away in a few months, but they were also pleased that he was getting the chance to do more with himself than continuing to support the family business. We were going over some of the particulars when Bobby walked in.

"Well, ain't you a sight for sore eyes, boy, especially considering the last time I saw you was flat on your back in a hospital bed!" He yanked me into a rough hug, then turned to the others. "I hope this idjit didn't cause too much trouble here."

"Depends if corrupting our son counts," Bill responded with a rueful grin.

"Hey, if anyone was doing the corrupting, it was me!" Dean protested. "This Boy Scout didn't stand a chance against me!"

Ellen aimed a playful swat at him. "Hush, you! Seriously though, it's been a pleasure to have Sam around, and he's pretty much part of the family by now. Could you use something to eat, you old coot?"

"I wouldn't say no to some of your or Dean's cooking. I drove straight through and never quite got around to having lunch, so you could say I'm a bit peckish." Bobby eagerly took a seat at the bar.

Ellen poured everyone glasses of beer, and Dean went into the kitchen. Bobby regaled us with tales of his battles with the church lawyer until Dean returned with a mushroom-Swiss burger and parmesan fries. While the older hunter ate, we told him more about my time here and also about our thoughts on what we wanted to do next.

"I gotta say, it makes me real happy to hear how well you've been fitting in here, Sam. I had plenty of arguments with your dad over the years 'bout how he raised you, and I tried more than once to convince him to let you stay with me or Jim and to not drag you into his vendetta," Bobby told me. "I was glad when I heard you'd gone to Stanford and hoped you'd be able to get outta the life for good. Obviously that damn demon screwed that up pretty badly for a while, and then I was worried 'bout the state you were in after John died. Hearing 'bout you and Dean and how you're making a life together—this is what I always wanted for you, son."

"Thanks, Bobby. Honestly, it sometimes feels like a dream, like this is too good to be true after everything I've been through. The Harvelles have been nothing but amazing, and I don't even have the words for how Dean makes me feel." I slid an arm around the omega's waist.

Bobby pushed his empty plate away. "Before it gets too sappy 'round here, why don't you two help me carry the crap I brought for you inside, alright?"

Dean and I followed him out into the front lot, where his rusty Chevelle was parked near the porch. He popped the trunk and indicated two milk crates mostly full of books. We each grabbed one and lugged them inside. At Bobby's instruction, Dean set his on the bar for his parents to peruse, while I took the other over to a table by the window.

First I lifted out the twin-sized quilt that had covered the bed in the guest room at Pastor Jim's rectory which I'd slept on so many times. I pressed it to my face and inhaled the faint odors of fabric softener and cedar, awash in what were some of the most contented moments of my childhood. I then took a look at the books in the crate, which included some volumes on mythology and an illuminated bestiary I'd enjoyed looking through when I was younger, as well as a couple philosophical texts that Pastor Jim and I had spent hours of friendly discussion over when I got older. I clutched one of these to my chest and fought back tears, knowing that I'd treasure them even more than the few lore books Dad had left behind.

Lastly I picked up a heavy manila envelope which had a black wax seal over the flap and my name in Dad's handwriting on the front. I looked over at Bobby and asked, "What . . . do I need to do anything special to open this?"

He nodded. "Near as I can tell, you hafta let three drops of your blood hit the seal and then identify yourself in Latin to break the spell."

I pulled out my pocket knife and pricked the tip of my left index finger, then carefully squeezed three drops of blood over the embossed wax. As the last drop fell, I recited, "Sum Samuel Henry Winchester, filius Ioannis et Mariae."

There was a brief flash of red light, and the seal cracked in half. I took a deep breath and opened the envelope. Inside were a stack of documents and a smaller envelope that appeared to be full of photos, with a handwritten letter on the top. I shakily removed the letter and smoothed the pages out on the table before beginning to read.

Dear Sam,

I've asked Jim Murphy to give you this letter and the contents of the accompanying envelope in case I die without telling you the secrets I've been keeping for so long. I hope that however I died, I took out the bastard that killed your mother first, and more importantly that I had a chance to reconcile with you and make up for some of my mistakes. I was wrong to fight with you that night and tell you to never come back. I was wrong before that to take your childhood away and force you to grow up too soon, to be more of a drill sergeant than the father you needed. I had what I thought were good reasons, because I was terrified that the sonofabitch that had already taken my wife would get you too, but that doesn't absolve me of what I did wrong. You need to know that I've always loved you and always been proud of you . . . and I hope that you'll eventually be able to forgive me for what I've held from you.

The first thing that I need to tell you, that I should've told you when you were old enough to handle the truth, is exactly why Mary was killed and our lives destroyed that night nearly twenty years ago. Her killer is named Azazel, one of the four Princes of Hell. He entered the houses of several children with psychic potential on the night of their six-month birthday to feed them his blood, in order to eventually awaken their abilities and bind them to him—and in some cases their mothers were collateral damage. His plan was to choose the best of them when they were old enough to lead Hell's armies into battle and even rule Hell itself after Lucifer himself was freed from his prison and conquered the earth. However, if Azazel could be killed before his plans came to fruition, any hold on his "special children" should be broken. THIS is the real reason why I've been hunting the damn thing for so long—not simply to avenge my mate but to save my son. I should've told you about all of this before, but I was afraid that the knowledge itself would put you in more danger, would put you on the demon's radar even sooner.

The second secret I've kept from you is even more unforgivable. You aren't the only child that Mary and I had. You have an older brother named Dean who was born on January 24, 1979. Mary called him her little angel, and he was devoted to you from the moment he first saw you. He was actually the one who carried you out of the house the night of the fire, and he did his best to help me take care of you after she was gone. He took her death real hard and didn't speak for months to anyone else—except for you, whom he'd tell stories and sing songs to just like she did. It was obvious to anyone who saw the two of you together that you were the most important thing in your brother's life—and even with how young you were, it was clear you felt the same about him.

The problem was that Dean is an omega, and like all oms he needed a stable home, a place of his own with family to take care of him. I couldn't give him what he needed, not when I had to keep moving us around to track Mary's killer and make sure it couldn't find us, not when I couldn't afford to stay in decent places and couldn't risk leaving you two with someone else for long, and not when I couldn't always be there without putting you in even more danger. I hoped that having you, taking care of you, would make up for that, but it wasn't—it helped him for a while but wasn't enough in the long run to counteract everything he was missing. Dean started to come down with omega wasting sickness about a year or so after we'd left Lawrence, and it soon became clear that he could die if I didn't do something.

I didn't know what to do at first. I couldn't simply settle down, not without endangering you and everyone else, but I couldn't let my boy waste away either. I finally realized that I had to do what was best for Dean and give him up, no matter how much it hurt. I couldn't turn him over to civilians though, not even family, in case something tried to come after him to get to me, but the hunters I was familiar with at the time generally weren't in much better condition to raise a child than me. Then I remembered a young couple who owned a hunter's bar in Nebraska that I'd gone to a couple of times and who were starting a family themselves, and I knew that they could raise and protect my son properly.

So a few weeks before your second birthday, I took Dean to Harvelle's Roadhouse and left him and his things there on the porch, with a note explaining that he needed more than I could provide and begging them to take care of him. Before doing that though, I went back to Lawrence and the various places we'd stayed at to remove any record that your brother had ever existed, and I found a spell that would take away all memories of his real family. You were fortunately young enough that your memories of "Dee" faded on their own, and the only people I told were Pastor Jim and my mentor Dan Elkins, whom I trusted to keep this secret—though that ended up being one of the reasons why Dan and I had our falling-out later.

I stuck around the Roadhouse that afternoon until the Harvelles found Dean and then a few days more to make sure they kept him instead of turning him over to CPS. I came back from time to time to watch from a distance at his home and school to see how he was doing, and I listened to any stories about him from other hunters who visited the bar over the years. I even left the Impala, which I'd put in storage not long after leaving Lawrence because I couldn't handle the memories, at the bar for him after his sixteenth birthday because he'd been crazy about that car when he was little. But I never went into the Roadhouse again or talked with any of the Harvelles in case my presence might affect the spell or otherwise jog someone's memory—and because I didn't trust myself to interact with my boy without falling apart.

Since I know what the first thing you'd demand would be, I didn't leave you with them too, didn't keep you and your brother together, because I had no choice. Even back then, I knew that whatever had invaded our house and killed my mate had something to do with you, even if I don't know why yet. There was no indication that the killer had any interest in Dean, but I couldn't put that young couple and the baby they were expecting in danger if it came after you again, nor could I risk that they wouldn't be able to protect you properly if that happened. Also, I was just too damn selfish. Giving up Dean so soon after Mary died broke what was left of my heart, and losing you too would've killed me.

Which is also the real reason why I never told you the truth before. I tried to convince myself that it was for your own good, that both you and Dean would be safer not knowing about each other, at least until the demon is dead. But the fact of the matter is that I knew that this would be the final thing that you couldn't excuse or ignore, the last straw that would push you away for good. If you're reading this letter, that means I took the coward's way out and never told you what I'd done before dying. I expect that you're going to hate me after this for a good long time, and I don't blame you. I just need you and your brother to know that I love you both so much, and I did what I thought was the best I could for you. I hope you'll be able to find Dean and reconnect with him . . . and that someday you can forgive me.

Dad

I dropped the letter as if it was burning my fingers and panted desperately, my ears roaring. The documents beneath had been divided into two packets, and I pushed the first one, which apparently contained additional research on the demon, aside. The second held a birth certificate, Social Security card, medical records, school files, and other documents proving the existence of one Dean Michael Winchester. The smaller envelope was full of pictures of a blond-haired, green-eyed, freckled little boy, with Mom, Dad, and even baby me, in our old house and yard in Lawrence, at the playground or the park, laughing and playing. There were even a few pictures taken later of the same boy but sadder, holding a slightly older version of myself in some shitty motel room.

As I stared at a picture of Mom holding this unknown toddler with my vision fading in and out, I realized why Dean had looked so familiar when we first met. Her hair was blonder and she had no freckles, but Mom and Dean shared the same big green eyes and finely drawn features. The only reason this hadn't occurred to me sooner is that I'd rarely seen pictures of my mother before—Dad usually hid the couple he'd kept with him away as too painful to look at often. My memory in turn stirred, and vague recollections of a smaller version of those green eyes and of a childish voice calling out "Sammy!" began to surface.

I shoved away from the table violently enough to knock my chair over and bolted, pushing past anyone in the way. As I ran desperately through the building and out the back door, I heard Dean shouting my name.

I soon found myself back in the clearing in the woods behind the bar and collapsed on the rock in the center. I struggled to keep from hyperventilating or throwing up as my thoughts and emotions swirled around madly. It was hard to believe how everything could've gone from so incredibly, ecstatically good to complete and utter shit in the space of only a few minutes. I bent over to stick my head between my knees as my tenuous control over both my breathing and my stomach started to slip.

A hand came down to rub my back soothingly mere moments later. "Calm down, Sammy, and take slow, deep breaths. Everything's gonna be okay. I'm here now, and we'll figure this mess out together."

I abruptly sat up and stared at him wildly. "Did—did you read it?"

Dean sat down beside me and continued to rub my back. "Not all of it, but yeah, I read the letter and saw some of the pictures."

"Then how can you say that everything will be alright?" I demanded. "We just found out that I was tainted with demon blood as a baby and was meant to possibly become Hell's head honcho under Satan himself! So my powers aren't just painful and freaky, they're fucking demonic! Am I even human anymore or just some other kind of hellspawn? Was that the real reason Dad never told me, because he was afraid of me going bad like Max Miller did?

"What's even more fucked up is that isn't even the worst of it! We also just found out that the man that I've fallen in love with, the man I've begun building a future with, is my goddamn brother! I—I've been having sex with my own brother like some inbred hick from Deliverance, minus the dueling banjos! Everything that I thought was making my life worth living again is ruined, and it's all thanks to Dad and his damn need-to-know crap!" I fell back against the rock with a despairing laugh.

"Like I said before, you need to calm down, kiddo! You ain't corrupted or whatever, okay?" he retorted. "Remember what that stupid-ass letter said—your psychic mojo was already part of you, and the blood was like . . . like Dumbo's feather, to help you access it, nothing more. With the fucking demon dead, any hold it might've had on you and any plans it might've had for you are dead too, so your abilities are no more demonic now than any other spoon-bender."

"The letter said the demon's influence should've been broken with its death, but we don't know that for sure," I pointed out.

"Sure we do, dude, because you're one of the best guys I know. You've used what you've got—not just the Professor X shit but your smarts and strength and everything else—to help people, not to hurt them or make a quick buck or crap like that. There's no chance of you ever going Dark Side, even if you'd had the same shitty life as that Miller kid," he insisted. "And if the demon blood did make you not completely human, so what? Hunters have plenty of stories of supernatural critters who don't hurt people, and some even help. What you are don't matter, only who you are and what you do. If your old man didn't get all of that and didn't trust you 'cause of it, then he was an even bigger fucking idiot than I thought."

"Maybe you're right about that, but it still doesn't change the fact that we're apparently as bad as the Targaryens or Dollangangers," I replied morosely.

"As far as I'm concerned, that crap don't really matter either, 'cause family is about more than who you share blood with. My parents are Bill and Ellen Harvelle, because they're the ones who raised me, took care of me, and gave a shit about me for most of my life," he stated firmly. "John Winchester means nothing to me—he's just the deadbeat sperm donor who dropped the ball on both of us and put his goddamn obsession before what his own kids really needed. Sure he said he cared and had good intentions, but the road to Hell yadda yadda. And my only sibling is Jo Harvelle, because she's the one I grew up with and looked after for the past twenty-one years. You and I may have half of the same DNA, but you ain't my brother."

Dean grabbed my hands tightly. "What you are is the guy that I fell in love with too, that I'm planning to move away with, that . . . that I wanna spend the rest of my damn life with—and you're part of my family 'cause you and I are gonna be mates someday, not 'cause of what some crappy letter says. I've never felt like this 'bout anyone else, and I know you feel the same. At the risk of going all Lifetime movie on us, we've had a—a connection from the very beginning, way deeper than some 'genetic sexual attraction' bullshit. What we've got is too important to me, and I ain't giving it up just because your dad was a grade A fuck-up who couldn't handle his shit."

"Wha—what about the incest thing though? Doesn't that bother you?"

"It does a little, but not enough to change my mind. We're both consenting adults, and it ain't like we can have babies together since we're both dudes. We weren't raised together, so neither of us feels like brothers to the other. And think about it—the only people who know that we're related are either dead or back in the bar, and I gotta believe that my folks and even Bobby love us too much to stand in the way of what makes us truly happy. I'm not gonna let some taboo that doesn't even really apply to our situation ruin the best thing that's ever happened to either of us," he said, giving my hands a squeeze.

"What if they don't accept it though?" I asked. "Are you really willing to give up your family for someone you've known for barely a month?"

Distress spiked in his scent, but his expression remained determined. "I hope that it won't come to that, but if push comes to shove, then yeah, I am. I love my parents, and nothing's gonna change that, but I love you more. How long we've known each other ain't what's important, only how we feel about each other. I love you more than I ever thought possible, and I ain't letting anyone stand in the way of that, not even Mom and Dad. If we hafta elope or whatever, it'll be up to them to accept it if they still want us in their lives. All that matters now, all that's ever mattered, is that we're together."

I sat up and studied him closely. "You really do mean this."

He nodded. "Really, really. What about you, Sam? Are you in this with me?"

"I—I want to be. You're right, I can't consider you as my brother instead of my lover—and I don't want to try. Being with you is the best thing in my life ever, and I don't know if I can handle settling for just being your little brother. Like you said, there's something special between us, like in those fairy tales where the lovers are meant to be, and that's worth fighting for," I replied, scooting closer to him. "Do you really think we can pull this off?"

Dean put his arm around me and tugged me down until my head was resting against his chest. "Of course we can, sweetheart! Thanks to John being such a sneaky sonofabitch, there's virtually no evidence that Dean Winchester existed—as far as nearly everyone knows, you're an only child. There may be some people back in your home town or among your estranged relatives who remember that you had an older brother, but there's nothing to suggest that I'm him. Meanwhile, we've got plenty of legit records establishing me as Dean Harvelle, and who I was before being adopted is a complete mystery. Fortunately you and I don't look anything alike, so there's no reason for anyone to suspect the truth."

"Now I get why Dad left me behind when I had visions of a poltergeist at our old house, because he couldn't risk me meeting someone there who might've mentioned you. One thing we'd have to be careful about is running into someone who remembers Mom, because the resemblance between you two is pretty conspicuous. I don't see us going back to Lawrence, but we might want to reestablish contact with Dad's mom and Mom's cousins someday. We can maybe find a suggestion spell to prevent them or anyone else from noticing the similarities," I suggested.

"Like some kind of Jedi mind trick—This isn't the Dean you're looking for," he intoned, gesturing with one hand.

I chuckled. "Yeah, something like that."

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, then rose and held out a hand. "You ready to go back and break the news, Sammy?"

I took his hand and stood. "Let's do this."