A/N: All warnings, disclaimers, etc. in the prologue.
Endgame
Chapter 1
"Well, that was - "
It was rare that Dean was at a loss for words, but it had been a very unusual day--even for them. They had been working a poltergeist, supposedly haunting an old barn on an elderly couple's property. However, as they delved into their research, the strange happenings had turned out to be something far different than they had anticipated. In all their years of hunting they had never run across such an unusually intelligent, exceptionally deceptive . . . goat. A goat that could open doors, push furniture, eat holes in wood . . .
"Yeah." Apparently, Sam agreed.
Dean's eyes were on the road, but his thoughts were on what they had left behind, and the corners of his mouth turned up. He shook his head ruefully.
"Well," Sam cleared his throat. "At least now you know that if this whole ghostbusting thing doesn't work out, you could always have a backup career as a pet detective."
"I wasn't the one the damn thing bonded with, Sammy. I mean, really, I think you could have at least bought it dinner."
That brought a laugh, and it made Dean grin to hear it. Sam was so damned serious most of the time. And, yes, he had his reasons - good reasons - but it could wear, after a while. On both of them.
Sam sighed and leaned his head back, a smile still ghosting at his lips. "So, where to next?"
"Well, I was thinking - "
"Always a dangerous proposition."
Dean paused a moment to glare, more out of habit than genuine annoyance. "I was thinking that we should take a day off."
Sam waited for a beat. "You serious?"
"Why not? I mean, it's a two-day drive to Cherokee, and all we're really doing is following up on one of Dad's notes. And depending on what we find when we get there, this may be our last break for a while."
"You don't have to convince me." A whole day off the road - a whole day NOT folding his body into the cramped front seat of the Impala - to Sam, sounded like heaven. "So, what should we do?"
"You're kidding, right?" When Sam just looked at him, eyebrows raised expectantly, Dean shook his head. "He's not kidding. Are you sure we're related?"
Sam rolled his eyes.
Dean ignored it. "Sleep in, man. Sleep in. Take an hour-long shower. Sleep some more. Eat a meal at some place that doesn't have a drive-through. Can your freaky little brain handle this or is it too normal for you?"
"I think I can handle it." Sam returned dryly, but his enthusiasm was palpable. "Drive on, Jeeves." He waved a hand in the general direction of the road, ignoring Dean's snort of derision.
They drove on in companionable silence.
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The red-gold of the late afternoon sun seeped through the gauzy motel curtains, drawing lazy trails of light across the room. They had followed Dean's day-off plan, detail for detail, and were now in bed for the second time that day. Dean was sleeping soundly under the covers, his head turned away from the light that crept across his face.
Sam hadn't slept as much as either brother had hoped. But the nightmares had been more manageable than on most nights, and now he was drifting, wandering in the no-man's-land between awake and asleep where his body could simply relax.
The phone's ring took them both by surprise. Sam grabbed it first, while Dean hazily roused himself. "Hello?"
There was a pause, a brief moment of static on the other end. "Sam, is your brother there? I need to talk to him."
To say that Sam was shocked to hear his father on the other end of the line would have been an understatement. John had only called once - once - in all these months, and had never responded to any of the messages the boys left for him. Not even when Dean was dying.
To say that Sam was hurt that his father had had no words for him at all, had not even said hello, but instead only asked for his brother, would have been even more of an understatement. Wordlessly, he handed the phone to Dean, too shocked and hurt to protest.
His voice empty and monotone, he said, "It's Dad." He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and letting his head rest on his knee.
Surprise evident, Dean stared at his brother as his father started speaking.
As a litany of tasks was relayed, Dean numbly nodded. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yeah, we can be there in less then twelve hours . . . OK . . . We will . . . Yes, sir."
Sam listened to his brother's short replies and affirmations. The entire conversation was over in less than a minute.
As soon as Dean turned the phone off, he rose and reached for his duffel, starting to throw things inside.
"What did he want?"
Dean stilled, gazing blankly at the wall for a moment before turning to face his brother. "He's found it. The thing that killed Mom." Dean drew an unsteady breath. "He needs our help to take care of it."
A multitude of emotions played over Sam's face. He wanted to speak, to say something, but nothing would come.
Dean watched, recognizing them as the same ones he was feeling. He started to say something, but nothing came to mind except, "Get moving. I told him we'd be there by morning."
But Sam couldn't move. The words swirled around him. He's found it. The thing that killed Mom. The thing that killed -
"Come on, Sam, let's go!"
Startled from the reverie, Sam stood and moved to help his brother.
