Chapter title is from song by Evanescence.
69
Bring Me to Life - Evanescence
Despite all his promises to the contrary, Sam kept leaving them "alone". The third time this happened, Dean looked at the remaining three quarters of his burger, leaned back, sighed, and ordered himself another beer.
He felt more than he saw her inquiring glance. He was so done with their meals turning into a competition speed-eating event. He picked at the bun of his burger morosely, and scowled at it.
"He keeps giving me the disappointed puppy eyes."
Whenever he showed back up at the room too 'early', whenever he tried to bolt from their evening meal with Sam. Because there was absolutely nothing there, god dammit, Sam.
She gave him an inscrutable look, and speared a tomato with her fork. If she'd noticed—it'd be hard not to—Sam's blindingly blatant attempts to give them 'alone time', she'd said nothing. She didn't even try to avoid him, like a kinder person might have done. She stayed right where she was and ate her tomato, then pushed a leaf of lettuce over into a pool of dressing, coating it with oil, letting the excess drip away before she raised it to her lips.
It took him a minute to realize he was staring.
Dammit, Sam.
.
"You talk to the kid at all?"
He'd settled back against the banquette with his second beer, watching the dusk fall outside.
She squished some ketchup onto her plate before replying.
"Once."
He raised both eyebrows in a question, because Dad only ever broke radio silence in case of imminent death or immediate danger.
"He's fine." There was an edge to that fine, from which he took that Toby was still campaigning to be back on the road. She picked up a French fry and swirled it in the ketchup slowly. "He asked about you."
He paused, because that was a can of worms.
"And what'd you tell him?"
She flicked him a quick look, one of her searching ones, before returning her attention to mutilating her fry.
"I said you were… about the same."
He huffed into his beer. He wouldn't have called his continuing devolution into demon-ness and damnation 'about the same', but it probably was, from a hunter's perspective.
She skewed him another quick glance, like she knew what he was thinking. But she had that carefully neutral thing going again, neither condemnation nor forgiveness, and she looked at the fry in her hand for another minute.
"He wanted to tell you," and this time, her glance was sharper, "since we wouldn't teach him, that he's learned to throw a Perfect Point well enough to hit the target all the time now."
Her glance flicked pointedly downward as if she could see through the table. He kept his eyes carefully on the crumbs left on his plate.
"Oh yeah? Good for him."
He was absolutely not missing one of the throwing pair he kept strapped inside his boot. He was not.
.
He hammered the dent out of the Durango's front fender because it was driving him completely nuts.
.
"I'm okay with it, so you know." He said out of absolutely nowhere, in between bites of takeout taco.
Her cup of coffee paused in midair for a second, but she didn't ask what he was talking about.
.
He hadn't really meant to follow her, that first time, but when she disappeared some mornings with nothing but a text , 'back by 7', he was just naturally, curious. Where she went, what she did, if she was doing anything they should know about.
It wasn't easy, following her, because, again, Rufus. He was pretty sure he'd been made, by the time he caught up to her. So he didn't bother hiding when he scoped out the small clearing in the sparse woods she had come to, watching her set the sling she kept her swords in down on the ground.
"I was…" His hands were in his pockets, and what was he exactly? He was avoiding Sam. He'd stalked her halfway across town, like a creepy assed creep, because he hadn't wanted to wait around with Sam and Sam glancing at him every five minutes, as if Sam thought he should be somewhere else, with someone else, and he just subconsciously obeyed Sam, hadn't he, dammit. He swore silently in his head, but his feet didn't move, because he didn't want to go back to the motel room with its four walls and the stew of Sam's silent disappointment …he waved a pocket at her, awkwardly. "You know what? I'm just gonna … head back."One of her eyebrows went up, like she saw right through him and his Sam evasion.
"If you want."
He'd blinked in surprise. It wasn't an invitation, exactly, but she wasn't giving him the boot. She was ignoring him, taking her long sword out of the sling, and setting up in the clearing as if he weren't even there. She drew, and there were no straw men here, but maybe her imaginary ones were enough. He watched her cut away at an army of ghosts, swinging at nothing, each stroke precise and controlled and honed to a fine edge that should have scared him. Instead, he found himself relaxing, easing into the way she moved, tuning into it like it was a song, something fast with a steady, thrumming beat.
.
"Off again?" Sam had said, watching him shrug into his jacket the next day.
"I'm just getting coffee."
"MmmHmm. Looong time for coffee."
"It's not a thing."
Sam's eyebrows did a smug jiggle.
"It's not a thing. I'm just…look, you want breakfast with that or not?"
.
They were in a park on the east side of town today, enough trees around the riverbank to shield them from curious eyes, a well-worn wooden bench and table set to one side. He put the extra double espresso he'd gotten down on the table and sat on the bench, before taking a careful sip from his own cup, his eyes on the gleaming line of her sword's upward swing.
.
"Drills." He'd told Sam. "She does drills."
"Kata." Sam snooted, in his I-read-books way. "Or 'forms'. They're traditional practice patterns in martial arts, a sequence of steps done over and over again, sometimes thousands of times, so that the movement becomes automatic in battle. It's also an exercise in precision and focus. Helps clear the mind." Sam looked almost contemplative. "I hear it's very zen."
"So, basically, drills." He'd said, and Sam made a wry face. Because, yeah, Sam remembered. It was a daily thing, getting rousted out of bed in the pre-dawn hours—load and fire, load and fire, until they could both do it blindfolded in under five seconds. Dad had timed them.
"Yeah. Drills." Sam conceded.
.
She turned on her right heel, one sweeping arc that would cleave a man in half, shoulder to hip. There would be a tiny, one-second pause here, before her next turn, that hadn't been there the first time he'd seen this pattern. That was enough time for him to teleport in behind her if he needed to, his back to her back, in case of extra bogeys at her six.
.
"You're like frigging Mr. and Mrs. Smith." Sam had said, when they'd pulled that maneuver at the last cemetery. He'd given Sam the stink eye, because seriously, Brad and Angelina? That's what Sam was going for?
.
With a flick and slither she sheathed her sword. He waited. Some days when the nightmares were bad she'd go another round, but today wasn't one of those days. He watched her wind down her routine, deep breaths in and out, hands on the sword at her side, an utter stillness to the silence.
She glanced briefly at him and the coffee he had set on the table before unfastening the sword from her side. She crossed the few steps between them without speaking, and set the katana back in her carrying case with careful hands. He watched the way her hands slid over the dark leather wrapping on the scabbard, familiar and lingering, and he wondered, not for the first time, what the story was there. She zipped the case firmly shut, and picked up the coffee he'd left sitting next to it. She took a slow sip before she looked over to him.
"Where we headed?"
"Sam said New Mexico. Some church there built by Jesuits. And not just that, Sam said the church might be sitting on top of an old Indian kiva. Whatever the Fallen are looking for, they're definitely looking for holy ground, and sacred place on top of sacred place sounds like pretty holy ground to me."
She cocked her head sideways and thought for a second. "This the mission in Santa Fe?"
Somehow he wasn't surprised she knew that off the top of her head. She lived and breathed the job, like the job was all there was. And maybe he wasn't surprised she let him hang out with her, because it was easier to keep an eye on him that way, since the job was all there was, even if Sam wanted to pretend otherwise.
.
"You know, it's going to be two days driving to get there, no matter how we cut it up." Sam had said, faking an overly bland look. "We'll be passing through Kansas. I mean, we'll be close enough to the bunker, if you want to…you know."
He'd given Sam the stink eye, because he didn't want to 'you know'.
"What, bring her home? Show her the antique junk?"
Sam hefted his eyebrows high in a hey-you-said-it-I-didn't sort of way.
He'd glared at Sam, because one, NO. And two, they were working. No matter what Sam thought, they were just working.
.
"It's going to be a two day drive from here." He found himself saying. "You know, we've got a safe place we could…"
"No."
He flinched and took a step back. "Well, I'll just…"
"No." She repeated more evenly. "Your…" she skewed him a look that was far too sharp, "…secret bunker? Wherever it is, don't tell me."
He stared at her, because … "Why not?"
Her expression closed up. He didn't think that was actually possible, but it turned out she had a more-guarded expression than her standard guarded expression, where she wasn't going to tell him shit.
"Don't tell me." She repeated. "I can't know."
His gaze narrowed on her face, on her emphasis. He'd gotten used to the way she played, none of her cards showing, except one thing. His eyes drifted to Toby's amulet, resting against her collarbone.
He's safer away from me.
She followed his line of sight. She put fingertips protectively over the amulet, the gesture as instinctive as it was telling.
He took one step forward. He had told Sam once that this was what it meant to live the life, to do the job. Don't get close to people, and don't make friends. Don't stand close enough to touch, and don't reach out.
Her hand felt fragile in his, but he knew better. With a careful thumb he traced over the barely visible lines that ran across her palm. Lines that had been there since she was knee high to Rufus, standing in front of that grand old pile she'd inherited. A grand old pile that had been contested—and was still coveted—by more old family than one.
Well. That stopped now.
It was a gray world, edging towards black. He could find them and take them, the Wodehouses, the Ambelyns, whoever or whatever had done this, devil or demon or soul. He could find them and take them, all their poltergeists and their richly haunted mansions, and see how they liked it down below. His vision grayed out and his muscles bunched in preparation, scanning and tracking, searching for his prey.
"No."
The sharp bite of her fingers into his forearm brought him up short. He looked down into whiskey eyes that reflected the sun, her expression stern.
He tried to shrug her off, but her grip bit, all those long hours of wielding a sword bruising on his arm, keeping him in place when she shouldn't have been able to hold him at all.
"No." She repeated. "It's not worth it."
He didn't understand what that meant. It was the job. It was his job.
"No." She said firmly, her fingertips feather light against his jaw. "They're not worth you."
He stared at her blankly. He had never been but a blade of his father's forging, made to do a job that needed doing. So he didn't know what it was, to be touched, as if he were breakable limbs and fragile skin, as if he might be bones and flesh. He didn't know how to do this—stay, and not throw himself carelessly into battle. He didn't know how to be this—worth, when he felt it would be a lie.
He drew a rough breath. She let go and he stepped back, the ground shifting beneath his feet, his boots dragging over wet leaves and damp grass, sinking slightly into ground made soft by last night's rain. Slowly he blinked, hues of brown and green and gold edging out his vision of gray, breathing in the smell of sunshine and fresh mown grass, the sky easing to blue with the dawn. He tucked his hands into his pockets, feeling Baby's keys solid against his fingers. If he turned his head he could almost see the Impala, parked next to the Durango, gleaming in the new day's light.
Without a word she picked up the coffee cup she had set down as if nothing at all had happened. Her face was completely neutral again when she glanced at him.
"So." She said. "Santa Fe."
He had to hand it to her, the lack of inflection in her voice. He had to clear his throat.
"Yeah. Santa Fe."
.
"So."
He shot a glance to his left, where Sam was trying not to smile, lips pulling in a definite upward curve, twitching with glee.
"What?"
"You seem…I don't know…more relaxed?"
"Shut up."
Sam smiled. A genuine, dimples and all, Sam smile. His breath stuck, because it'd been a long time since he'd seen Sam smile like that, and he hadn't really realized how long it had been. He'd gotten Sam peanut butter and bread and bananas, and Zee had raised a pointed eyebrow at the bananas, but hey, what could you do?
"I mean, I think it's good, Dean. Really good. She already knows everything, and that's…rare."
He slanted another look sideways when Sam trailed off there, because he knew what Sam was thinking. The lie Sam lived, had been made to live; the things Sam had never told Jessica, that maybe would have saved her life. The things that Sam hadn't even thought to tell Amelia, because they were shadows, and she had been his light. Not for the first time he wondered how Sam did it, go all head over heels when a part of himself was still hidden away, stashed under the mattress like the knife he knew Sam would've kept there, no matter how normal Sam was pretending to be.
"Mmm." He said as non-committally as possible.
"I'm happy for you, Dean." Sam smiled again, brimming with it, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders too. Dean cringed internally, because it would go to shit in so many ways he couldn't even count them.
"Sam."
"What?"
"I want you to promise me something."
Sam stopped grinning and looked at him, caught by his tone. Sam's eyes narrowed, but all Sam said was, "Yeah, Dean. Sure. What?"
"I want you to promise you'll always look out for her. There's a whole lot of shit coming our way, and I…I need you to promise me that."
The furrow that had been developing between Sam's brows eased. "Of course, Dean. You know I will."
Dean grimaced. He knew what he was asking of Sam, and maybe Sam would hate him for it down the line, but he had to do it. It was the price he paid for keeping Sam out of it.
He forced a smile to his lips.
"Yeah. I know you will. I just needed to hear it."
Sam nodded. "Well, you got it."
He glanced in the rearview mirror at the same time Sam did, both of them keeping an eye on the Durango behind them. He turned his gaze back forward, eyes fixed on the road in front of him, and the newly planted fields of corn stretching out to either side.
.
"We should." She gestured, at the parking lot, at the Durango.
He straightened. "Yeah."
She picked up her sling one handed and slung it over her head and one shoulder in one fluid motion, years and years of practice in it, before she looked up at him. By this time tomorrow they'd be on the road, driving hell for leather for New Mexico, the asphalt hot beneath Baby's wheels.
He didn't get it. They barely touched; they didn't do anything. He had no idea what it was Sam saw that gave Sam his crazy ideas.
She was already headed off to the cars, on to the next order of business. And that's what this was, just business. When he didn't follow she stopped and turned, and crooked one eyebrow up, a silent inquiry as clear as words.
"Yeah." He said. "Yeah. I'm coming."