Whole Lotta Love

Driver noticed Shotgun had kept his cakehole shut for some time. Now, it was true that Sam lapsed into naps often enough on long, boring drives; and he didn't always want to talk things to death, but there was a quality to this silence that bordered on brooding.

On second thought, there was no "bordered on" about it. It was an Epic Sammy Broodfest. Dean just hadn't seen it for awhile.

He shot his brother the occasional sidelong glance from the corners of his eyes. He didn't want to make it too obvious. Because if Sam noticed, Sam would then ask "What?" in his pissy, prissy, princess-y way with Bitchface on full display, and that would require talking. At least, the kind of emo talking that Dean shied away from like the plague.

Besides, usually it was Sam doing the asking of Dean, not the other way around. It would be out of character, and Dean prided himself on maintaining character.

Still. Sam really hadn't brooded in a pretty remarkable length of time. While their lives were as endangered as ever, they were not currently mired in any kind of emotional repercussions from, oh, say, hell. Dean had been gripped tight and raised, and Sam was in full possession of his soul, and they'd been working well together of late.

So this was . . . unexpected.

Dean would never ask this of his brother, but he certainly asked it of himself often enough: Did I do something?

Which was a pretty stupid question, because, yes, he knew himself fully capable of 'doing something' that might set off a Broodfest. But he couldn't think of anything offhand. Not lately. Of course with his emo little brother, he often couldn't tell if he'd done anything, because Sammy took umbrage at things Dean lacked the capacity to remotely grasp. Sam had been that way since he was a kid. Brooding was nothing new. But in those days, Sam brooded about little kid things, such as feelings, and puberty; and Winchester-specific things, such as why Dad wasn't around, why they were moving to yet another school, why he was stuck wearing Dean's hand-me-downs, why he had to make up stories about what their dad did for a living, and why Dean too often bore bruises and cuts that had teachers eyeing them both with suspicion. Dean got that. It made sense to him that an emo kid like Sam would let such things get to him.

But Sam wasn't a kid anymore; wasn't that kid specifically, and hadn't been for a long time. He'd even left behind the resentments and moodiness and volatility of the early post-Stanford days.

Another sidelong glance. He noted Sam's phone on the seat. Yeah, Sam had been scrolling through stuff before The Brood descended.

And suddenly, out of the blue, a memory arrived. He heard the exchange in his head. Sam, on his long-discarded PalmPilot, scrolling through e-mails.

Dean had asked, "E-mails from who?"

Sam answered, "From my friends at Stanford."

Dean had been surprised. They were months removed from Stanford. "You're kidding. You still keep in touch with your college buddies?"

"Why not?"

"Well, what exactly do you tell 'em? You know, about where you've been, what you've been doin'?"

Sam had shrugged. "I tell 'em I'm on a road trip with my big brother. I tell 'em I needed some time off after Jess."

He found that highly ironic. "Oh, so you lie to 'em."

"No. I just don't tell 'em….everything."

Dean had wanted to laugh. "Yeah, that's called lying. I mean, hey, man, I get it, tellin' the truth is far worse. "

And he'd heard the irritation, the frustration in Sam's tone. "So, what am I supposed to do, just cut everybody out of my life?"

And eventually, that's exactly what Sam had done, other than those people upon whom they depended in this line of work.

Dean remembered saying, "Look, it sucks, but in a job like this, you can't get close to people, period."

And he'd played variations on that theme for Sam several times after the first instance. Because Sam never had been the kind of person who could cut people off, cut them out. He withdrew, but it tended to be gradual. Or was at least done with some form of compassion, some indication that Sam was sorry for the circumstances being what they were.

Dean could ask. Or he could investigate.

He snaked his brother's phone as Sam stared out the passenger-side window.

He was quick about it, and careful, and brought up the last e-mail swiftly, but Sam was much better these days than he used to be and he noticed. He also ripped the phone from Dean's hand and held it out of reach. "Are you snooping?"

Dean shrugged. "Who's Rebecca Warren? Some hot chick you're keeping on the side so I don't cut you out?"

Sam stared at him. "You don't remember?"

"Should I?"

"Rebecca's the one the shapeshifter, wearing your form, nearly killed. It's what got you wanted by the cops and your face up on TV. I can't believe you don't remember that."

Well, now he remembered. "Oh. Yeah. Rings a bell. She was kind of hot."

"She was a friend of mine, Dean."

"Friends can be hot, Sammy." He shot his brother a grin, but let it fade when it wasn't returned. Broodfest. "So, she got another case for us, or something?"

Sam tucked his phone deep into a jeans pocket. "She's getting married."

Dean glanced at his brother again. "So . . . "

Amazingly, Sam knew where he was going even though he didn't actually end up there. "No, Dean. She was Jess's friend. Friend. I'm happy she's getting married. It's just . . . been a long time. I'm surprised she even thought to e-mail me about it." He hitched his left shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "Another life."

And now it all came clear.

Dean tiptoed carefully out onto the brittle icefloe. He wasn't good at it; he had little practice. Still, he wanted to know. Something in him needed to ask. "So, if I hadn't come to get you—"

Sam's answer was swift. "I'd be married to Jess and we'd have 2.5 kids." Then his mouth jerked, and it wasn't a smile. "Except I don't think it would have happened. I don't think it ever would have been allowed to happen. He'd have stopped it. He did stop it."

Dean frowned, glanced away from the road briefly. "Who did?"

"The demon." Sam shook his head, staring now out the windshield. "Yeah, it's true, Dean, if you've ever wondered . . . I did blame you. For a long time. Not for her death, but because I left. You talked me into chasing after Dad and I wasn't home when Jess was killed. But it would have happened regardless at some point in time. The Winchester curse. The Winchester legacy. The Winchester destiny." He ran rigid fingers through his hair. "Maybe if I'd never gone to Stanford, if I'd stayed with you and Dad the way he'd wanted . . . Jess would still be alive. Dad would still be alive."

That pinched in ways he'd never anticipated. "Sammy, don't think like that."

Sam looked at him directly for the first time in hours. "And if it's true?"

Dean had never been one for avoiding hurtful truths. "Maybe it is, but you can't think like that. You did what you wanted to do."

"I ran out on you and Dad. And don't say you never felt that way."

He didn't, because he had. "But it was right for you."

"Yeah. But that doesn't mean you had to think it was. God knows Dad didn't. At least, not by then." Sam huffed a soft sound akin to a laugh. "He told me about the college funds, you know."

Dean frowned at him. "What?"

"You don't remember?—oh, no, you weren't there when we talked about it. Yeah. Dad told me that before Mom died he started a college fund for both of us. A hundred bucks for each, every paycheck." His smile broadened. "One for you, too. College Boy."

"Nah." Dean dismissed it. "Never would have happened."

Sam's tone was a mix of dry irony and annoyance. "You're not a stupid man. You just play one on TV sometimes, when you're shining everyone on."

This was why he hated it when Sam went emo. Because it got turned around on him.

"Shut up," Dean muttered, and turned the radio on.

His brother reached out and turned it back off. "I regret how it happened, that it cost Jess her life. But that wasn't your fault, it wasn't my fault, and it wasn't Dad's fault. And I don't regret walking away. I don't regret that the prodigal son returned to the family business. And I sure as hell don't regret that I sit here next to you with my ass going to sleep every damn day, though yeah, my ears do bleed sometimes and I wish now and then you'd play some John Denver, or something."

"John Denver? John Denver?"

"Or even Barry Manilow."

Dean nearly wrecked the car. "Oh, dude. You are so never going to drive my baby again. You are on permanent shotgun duty. Holy crap. Talk about shapeshifters . . . I woke up this morning with one in the bed next to mine!"

" –well, you came and you gave without taking,
But I sent you away, ohhh Mandy . . ."

Sam was crooning Manilow.

Between gritted teeth, he said, "You know the gun in the glovebox?"

Sam stopped singing. "Yeah?"

"Pull it out, take the safety off, and shoot me."

But Sam, snickering, took pity on him. He turned on the radio, punched in the cassette, and let the mellow, soothing, lounge-lizard stylings of Led Zeppelin's Robert Plant, in mid-scream/banshee shriek, fill the car.

"My ears are bleeding," Sam announced. Loudly.

"Let 'em bleed!" Dean declared. More loudly.

Because, really, it was too loud. But he couldn't tell Sammy that.

Though from the way Shotgun was grinning through the windshield, dimples on full display, Driver had an idea his baby brother knew.

~ end ~