Author: kaly
Category: Gen; angst
Rating: K+
Word Count: 2900
Spoilers: 2x01, contains spoilerish speculation for 2x05
Summary: Secrets and lies, however well intentioned, come with consequences.
Notes: My thanks, as always, to geminigirl11 for the speedy beta work and general cheerleading. :)
Disclaimer: Not mine. The pretty, snarky, angsty brothers belong to Kripke & the CW.
Now Comes the Night
The only sound in the hotel room was the shower, pounding away until no doubt the last of the hot water was gone. Resigned to yet another cold shower, Sam closed the laptop - their first real acquisition since Dean finished rebuilding the Impala. He hadn't found anything new - nothing hunt-worthy, anyway.
They had been moving almost non-stop for weeks, rarely pausing, never looking back. It was as though Dean didn't want to even let himself stop and think - an ironic choice of words, Sam couldn't help but notice. Thinking was about the last thing Sam wanted to do, after learning how Dean really felt. About him. About his abilities. About where the future might lead. It was too much.
Shaking his head roughly, refusing to go there yet again, Sam glanced around the room resignedly, taking in the dirty laundry that was overflowing both of their bags. They both tended to avoid doing laundry for as long as possible, but eventually there really was no other option.
His own was easy enough to sort into piles - cleanish, dirty, throw away. Once that was done, with the worst put back into his bag for the trip, he began pulling the soiled, yet still rolled shirts from Dean's bag. Tugging on a shirt that was stuck, Sam took a step backwards when it gave, something heavy hitting the floor beside his feet. It only took a glance to recognize Dean's leather-bound journal, neither as battle-scarred nor as thick as their father's, but worn all the same.
Retrieving it from the carpet, Sam was about to drop it on the bed when he saw his name scrawled hastily on the opened-page. Although not intending to read it, more words jumped out at him before he could close the book. He glanced up quickly, toward the bathroom, relieved that the water was still running - Dean's voice now carrying faintly over the white noise.
Clips and phrases jumped out at him, some written so hurriedly as to barely be legible. Others were all but carved into the paper, jagged letters tearing the surface.
"Bad enough he thinks I'm waiting for him to turn into Max. If he knew about Dad. About him. About the demon. Damn it all to Hell. Damn Dad. This'll kill him - if he doesn't kill me first for lying to him."
Sam slumped onto his bed, eyes tracing the disjointed thoughts, trying to decipher entire sentences that had been scratched out. However, of it all, the last was the worst.
"It's dangerous, for all of us. Sam can't know. Dad insisted. I wish he never told me."
The book fell from Sam's hands, dropping onto the bed as if it burned him. Suddenly, it felt as though there was no air in the room. Trying to breathe through a closing throat, Sam whipped around when he heard the shower stop.
Vision tunneling, he reached out blindly, finding his half-emptied bag on the bed. Distantly, he could hear Dean moving around in the bathroom. The small noises were like a clock ticking, moving faster and faster, insisting he leave. Now.
Knowing he was running out of time, but aware he couldn't leave without a word, Sam grabbed the journal and a pen from the bedside table. He scrawled two words, just beneath Dean's. Finished, he dropped it back onto the bed not noticing when it slipped on the bedspread and once more fell to the floor.
Then he turned, grabbed a pistol from its bag on the rickety table, and fled the room without a backwards glance.
It was dangerous, Dean had said.
He was dangerous.
"All yours, Sam," Dean announced, steam wafting around him and into the cooler main room. Taking a step further into the room, noting the distinct lack of his brother, Dean's gaze fell onto the various piles of laundry.
"Cool," he said with a shrug, assuming Sam had finally broken down and decided to do laundry. He knew as well as Sam how desperately they were in need of clean clothes. Sorting through the pile on his bed, he found the least offensive shirt and pulled it over his head. A relatively clean pair of jeans followed.
Grabbing the remote from the table, Dean idly flipped through the seven channels the motel offered before clicking the television off. A quick glance at the clock revealed he'd managed to waste an entire twenty minutes. Not nearly long enough for the first load to be done.
With a sigh, Dean resolved himself to laundry as well, dumping his clothes back into his bag - no need to sort; they could all use the wash. He'd stop by the front desk and find out where the laundromat was and then find something to eat. There was no question that Sam could use the fuel - neither of them had exactly had an appetite since Jefferson City.
Opening the door to their room, grimacing in the sunlight before his eyes adjusted, Dean noticed the car was still sitting in its spot. It had occurred to him that Sam hadn't driven since the night of the accident. He wished he knew if it was because he didn't think Dean wanted him to or if he simply couldn't bring himself to.
Dean gave his head a shake, forcing the thoughts away. Down that path lay madness. Down any path that brought them back to the accident or losing their... Even after so much time he couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.
A quick stop at the office earned him directions to a hole-in-the-wall laundromat just down the road. And, as it so happened, a greasy spoon between point A and point B. Pefect.
Mid-afternoon was always a good time to stop for food - a lifetime on the road had taught him that among so many things. He placed their order, and in a few minutes two burgers with fries to go were up and waiting. Dean even managed a smile in thanks as he took the food.
For once, the directions were accurate and he found the landromat - "Soap and Suds", he read with a groan - half a block down the road. Dean pulled the door open, flinching from the overwhelming wave of heat and humidity that poured out. Shuddering, already feeling the sweat bead up on his neck, Dean stepped inside, letting the door slam shut behind him.
Around the room, washers and dryers spun noiselessly, while a handful of people were scattered here and there, keeping to themselves. A quick glance revealed no sign of Sam and Dean felt something begin to settle heavily in his stomach. Suppressing another shudder - and refusing to think about Minnesota - Dean crossed the room, found the bathrooms and stepped inside, certain he'd find Sam there.
When the bathroom turned up empty, and another look around revealed no other hidden corners, Dean admitted defeat. Shrugging the bag from his shoulder and placing the food on a nearby table, Dean pulled his cell from a pocket. Eyes searching the road beyond the front windows, still hoping for some sign, he flipped it open and speed-dialed Sam's number.
As the phone rang - continuing to ring until Sam's voice mail picked up - Dean felt the lump in his stomach knot. Something was wrong. An entire life of hunting had drilled the instinct into him and he knew better than to question it now. He only wished he'd questioned it at the hospital.
Grabbing the bags, Dean hastily left the laundromat and ran back to the hotel, cursing the fact he'd walked rather than driving the car. He wasn't sure what he'd find in their room, but that was the last place he'd seen Sam and it was the best place to start searching for clues as to what had taken his brother.
Only once he was there, Dean was as lost as he had been before. Half of Sam's clothes were still on the bed, the new laptop resting beside them. There was no sign of a break in, no sign of a fight. It made no sense whatsoever.
Taking a deep breath, Dean dropped onto his bed, trying to decide what he should do next. He half-hoped Sam would amble in, some flimsy excuse or another and leave Dean feeling foolish for jumping to conclusions, maybe a little annoyed for worrying. But he knew his little brother better than that. He might've said otherwise in the past, in the heat of the moment, but he trusted him more than that.
What he hadn't said, when Andy had been playing his mind games... Dean still hated the look on Sam's face. He still felt guilty for laying his doubts on Sam's shoulders. That wasn't how the big brother gig was supposed to work. He had never intended for Sam to find out and, as with so many things, he couldn't bring himself to broach the subject with Sam since.
Dean felt his boot kick something hidden, just under the edge of the bed. Kneeling, hoping for some clue, he was surprised to find his journal lying there. Its pages were crumpled against the carpet, more than one sticking out at an awkward angle.
Picking up the book, about to drop it into his bag, Dean froze. Holding the offending item by his fingertips, he held his breath and nervously flipped through the pages. So many were still empty; it had so far to go before it was like their dad's. But there, toward the back, was one page full of a rambling he couldn't seem to stop. Never before had he used the journal as an outlet - dear diary wasn't exactly his style - but after what their dad had told them, after... just, after. He had.
When he finally landed on that page, Dean felt the air in his lungs rush outward. The space he'd left empty, once he'd finally run out of disjointed thoughts, was now filled.
It simply read: "I'm sorry."
Dean collapsed backwards onto the bed, his knees giving out. What he'd written made no sense; it didn't even say what their dad had told him about Sam, about the others. Even afterwards, Dean hadn't been able to make himself write it down. He couldn't even guess what Sam had thought when he'd read it.
The how or why Sam had been reading in his journal escaped him for the moment. They could deal with that, deal with his own lies to Sam, once he found him.
Dean jumped when his phone rang, splitting the ominous silence. Without even a glance at the caller id, Dean flipped the phone open.
"Sammy? Where are you?"
"Dean?" The voice on the other end was decidedly not Sam's. "Dean, you there?"
"Missouri?" Dean asked, confused. "Yeah, but I don't really..."
"Have time," she interrupted, finishing his thought. "I know, honey. Listen to me. You need to find Sam."
Laughing mirthlessly, Dean shook his head. "Yeah, kinda figured that one out on my own, thanks."
"Just let me finish!" she cut in, her voice sharp. "That's why I'm calling. I don't know what's happened but something has. Dean, you have to find him. Now."
"Got any suggestions? 'Cause I'm fresh out of ideas," Dean asked, trying to ignore the break in his voice.
He heard her sigh heavily. "Nothing exact. Trees. Water. A thicket of trees. He's there."
"Do you know how many..." Dean began, temper flaring, before trailing off in mid-sentence. He remembered a river on the way into town, with a sign for a park that bordered it. "A park?" he said, his voice smaller.
"It fits what I'm seeing," she replied. "Hurry, Dean. He needs you."
"The feeling's mutual," Dean muttered.
Dean could hear the smile in her voice when Missouri replied, "I know it is. Now go find our boy."
Hanging up without a goodbye, Dean shoved the phone into his pocket. Picking up the Impala's keys from the table, his eyes skimmed the other contents and felt his blood run cold. The weapons bag - brought in so he could maintenance them - was missing his .38.
He ran.
Dust flew behind the Impala as he slammed on the breaks, abusing her in ways he would never have dreamed of just weeks prior. Jumping out of the car, Dean slammed the door shut behind him, jogging toward the tree-lined river.
The closer he came to the water, the thicker the brush became. Eventually, he was pushing branches out of his eyes - scared he would miss Sam amongst all the foliage. For such a big guy, he had an uncanny ability to disappear in plain sight at times.
Dean finally saw Sam, pressed against the trunk of a tree - and what he saw there brought him to a halt.
"No!" he yelled, though it was more air than sound, as though he'd been gut-punched.
Sam jerked, the gun moving just slightly from where he had been pressing it against his chin. Wide, disbelieving eyes stared back at him. "Dean?" Sam asked, his voice shaking.
Holding one hand out in front of him, as though he were approaching a skittish horse like he'd seen in a movie once, Dean said, "Just put it down, okay Sammy?"
Confusion colored Sam's features, his brow furrowing; however, he did as Dean asked. "What are you doing here?"
Words failed Dean then, his mouth falling open. Swallowing nervously, Dean struggled to find something - anything - to say to his little brother. Anything other than standing there, gaping like a fish.
"What do you think I'm doing here?" Dean finally managed to ask, his voice shaking. "Sam... What you read..."
Sam began shaking his head, sharp, jerky motions back and forth. "Don't Dean. I get it, okay? I understand."
"You understand what, exactly, Sammy? I wrote it and I barely understand."
Sam moved backwards as far as the tree would allow. "Dad knew about me, Dean, about the others. We're evil, tainted. All of us - like Max. Like you thought." Dropping his eyes, Sam swallowed nervously. "And I'm not going to hurt you." Dean took a step forward and Sam raised the gun once more. A single tear broke from Sam's eye as he whispered, "I'd die for you."
Choking, Dean felt his knees give way and he dropped to the ground, mere inches from Sam. "You could never hurt me, unless you did this," he whispered, not daring to blink for the moisture in his eyes. "Sammy..."
Sam gulped, his breathing ragged around the tears. "Go back to the hotel, okay Dean? It'll be over soon. You'll be okay."
"How can you say that?" Dean asked, his throat feeling like he'd swallowed glass. "Are you out of your mind?"
Sam laughed, the chilling sound echoing in the forest around them. Dean shivered at the dead sound. "No, but who's to say I won't be soon? Who's to say I won't be like Gordon's sister? I can't do that to you, Dean. It'd kill you."
"And leaving you here to die won't?" Dean yelled, a small part of him relishing the startled way Sam flinched, the gun lowering once more. "Listen to me. You're not evil, Sam. I don't care what Dad or anyone else says."
Jumping up, pacing back and forth, Dean shoved his fingers through his hair. Turning back to face Sam, overwhelmingly relieved to see the gun was in his lap rather than under his chin, Dean felt his anger fade. "Sammy, you're the best piece of light left in me. I cannot do this without you. I won't."
"Dean..."
Dropping once more in front of Sam, Dean reached out hesitantly, placing his hands over Sam's. He took a shuddered breath once he held the gun, relief washing over him when Sam didn't fight him.
"Please, Sammy."
Sam shook his head, frustration coming off of him in waves. "Dean... What did Dad tell you about me? About the others? Why won't you tell me?"
Letting his head drop, chin resting on his chest, Dean shook his head. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters. I was wrong. Dad was wrong."
"So I was right. He did say that I'm evil. Dean, if that's true..."
"No!" Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulders, shaking him. "How many times do I have to say it before you get it through that thick head of yours? You're not evil. We'll find a way."
"What if there isn't one? What if we're all doomed to fall into the demon's grand plan, Dean? What if there is no other option?" Sam asked, and Dean couldn't help but think he looked like a puppet with its strings cut. Defeated tears streaked his face, his shoulders shaking as he chewed on his lip. "Dean..."
Dean pulled him into a hug, refusing to allow the thought time to grow hold. He held onto Sam as though he might disappear, shaking as the true weight of what they'd barely escaped settled in.
Looking skyward, hoping they might both still survive this, Dean threaded his hand through Sam's hair as though to pull him closer. He steeled his resolve - because while Sam might be stubborn, he'd learned it from Dean. And Dean was the master.
"Then we make another option, Sammy. Together."
end