Chapter Six
Sam opens his eyes, then scrunches them shut, wincing away from the assault of the too-bright sunlight. He rolls to his back and rubs both hands across his face as images from the previous night's debacle come flooding back. It took him hours to go to sleep after, puzzling over it all—where things with Dean went wrong, how to make it right. He'd like to pass it off as inevitable, just Dean skidding to the bottom of the downhill slope he's been on ever since Dad. The thought stirs the ache in his gut, the one that's never really gone away. God, I wish you were here, old man. I don't know what to do.
One thing is certain—he's not accomplishing a damned thing here. Unless it's ruining Kelly's life as well.
Which brings him to problem number two. He's got to talk to Kelly today if he can. It was a mistake to even let her in the house last night. He should have told her goodbye at the door, made a clean break of it. He knew there was no future for them from the first. Pretending otherwise was self indulgence at best; at worst it was endangerment.
Sam sighs and tries to gather himself to face what he's got to do. Lying here thinking about it is just more procrastination; there's no reason to wait. Dean's never had a problem with leaving on a moment's notice before and Sam's sure he'll be even less inclined to stick around now. Sam reaches for his phone to check the time: ten o'clock. Later than he figured, but the extra sleep won't hurt him; it's going to be a long and difficult day. Besides, there's no point waking Dean before his system has had time to process the alcohol. Must have been a hell of a lot of it, from what Sam saw last night.
Sam swings his legs out of bed, flexing his stiff ankle with a sense of freedom. At least that's one less thing to worry about. He gets up and starts down the hall, but the sight of Dean's room stops him dead. A twinge of pain shoots up his bad leg when he stutters to a halt at the door.
Dean's room is clean. No dirty clothes on the floor, no trash, nothing. The bed is empty. What the hell? Sam walks into the room, checks the closet and there's nothing there either. Wow, Dean must be really anxious to leave. He's already packed up.
The front room is just as clean, and the Impala's not outside. Sam frowns. Maybe Dean's gone to square things at work? Dean's not functioning at full capacity—last night made that painfully obvious—but something's weird here. He's a little relieved when he sees the note, Dean's haphazard scrawl on a smudged diner receipt and weighted to the kitchen table with an old pocketknife.
Sorry about last night. Take the shot. D.
Sam picks up the scrap of paper, glancing at the small pile of cash that was under it. The situation is pretty clear; he just can't quite wrap his mind around it. Then it slots into place like the click of a camera's shutter.
Nobody said a word on the drive home. Dad marched them into the house, the heat of anger baking off him in waves Sam could feel. Sam slipped around the kitchen doorframe—afraid to stay, afraid to leave them alone. Weeks of tension between them had ended in a trip to the police station, and Sam still didn't know what it was all about.
John was standing with his back to Dean, leaning over the counter with his head down. Dean started for the bedroom and John whirled in his direction, stopping Dean with the motion as sure as if he'd laid hands on him. They squared off on opposite sides of the kitchen table, and Sam could feel the threat of violence in the air. He waited for John to say the words, deal out the punishment. Whatever it was had to be better than the waiting.
John looked down at the table, swallowed hard like he was having trouble getting the words out.
"Do you ever think when you get yourself into this shit, Dean? God, I know you're not stupid! Sam looks up to you! Everything you do affects him!"
Sam saw it then, something breaking in Dean, he just didn't really understand it. Then Dean disappeared some time in the night. He was gone for four days before John finally located him, brought him back. Sam never knew where he'd been or what Dad said to him. It was never mentioned again.
Sam hasn't thought about that night in years, though he remembers it seemed like a huge deal at fourteen years old. His own teenage rebellion had kicked in not long after, and he'd starting planning his escape. But he never forgot the look in Dean's eyes, beaten and lost, I give up flashing there, clear as if he'd said it out loud. And Sam saw it again last night.
It's not that hard to figure out. Dean's been like a fish out of water the whole time they've been here. Life on the road, on the hunt—that's all Dean knows. It's messed up, but Sam's honestly not sure he's much better himself. Kelly's right, in a way. Staying here is denial, really—they're just waiting for the axe to fall.
He wheels and stalks to the bedroom, ignoring his ankle's complaints and grabbing his phone from the pocket of his jeans. He closes his eyes, flips the phone closed against his forehead when he gets Dean's voicemail. Sam wanders back to the kitchen, stands there looking at the money on the table.
He feels like he's stepped into some alternate reality, some place where the usual rules don't apply. Dean's left him here, in some little time-bubble of false normality. He sits down hard in the kitchen chair, puts his face in his hands. He laughs shakily. He's a grown adult, sitting here feeling lost, abandoned—like a kid left behind in a gas station restroom.
What are you doing, Dean?
**
Dean is driving. He can still do that—climb into the car and let her hard shell of steel close him off from the world, the only form of sanctuary left to him. Too bad her sleek metal skin can't save him from thinking. There's not much traffic this time of the morning and the road stretches straight and lonely ahead. He's not even clear where he's heading, but he figures it doesn't matter much, as long as it's away. It's not like it's anything new. He's used to wandering, no idea what's going to happen next. It's like hacking a path through the undergrowth with a machete. He can slash and cut, but there's always more jungle in front of him. He won't see the end coming until it's on him.
Christ. This is the problem with being alone. The soundtrack is so fucking depressing. He slots in a tape.
It doesn't stop the fuzzy images from the night before from crowding into his mind. Dean snorts softly, shakes his head. In a long and storied career of fuck-ups, this one was right up there in the top five. But that's not why he left, the big scene at the house. He knew what he had to do as soon as he saw the two of them together in the car.
Dean's not really sorry about any of it—that's the thing. If Bobby's right and there really is a war coming, then it's best to sideline Sam right now, clean amputation for them both. Dean's always known he can't hang on to his little brother forever, no matter what he might have said to Sam, or what Sam said back. And maybe Sam even believes it, that he's committed to the hunting life, but Dean's not stupid. It's not in Sam. Take a look at the evidence—a few short weeks sitting still and Sam's already started to put down roots. Dean's not going to be the one to tear him loose, watch him wither away. Not this time.
Dean's crossing the Colorado-Wyoming border when the snow starts to fall. The storm closes in around him and it feels like a blessing, covering his tracks with a thick blanket of clean white. It won't keep Sam from finding him if he sets his mind to it, but Dean's not going that far anyway. He can't leave Sam completely unguarded, not after he promised Dad. If it comes down to it, they've all just got to hope Dean's got a kamikaze run left in him. There's no other way.
**
Sam rubs his hands over his face, trying to think. He's still got a credit card, so he can get a rental, go after Dean. There's no way Sam's leaving him on his own for long, not the way he's been acting. He doesn't think Dean would do anything too drastic, try to hurt himself. Dean thinks suicide is "chickenshit"—Sam's heard him say so more than once. But that doesn't mean he won't let someone or something else do it for him, and Sam's not entirely sure how deep this problem goes. He doesn't think it will come to that, but he's not willing to trust his instinct. He's obviously not been paying enough attention to Dean's state of mind.
Sam looks around for the laptop and finds it sitting on the coffee table. He should be able to track Dean by his cell signal without too much trouble. He turns it on, tapping his hand nervously against the table while he watches the BIOS check scroll by. It stops: "No bootable drive detected." He turns it off and back on. Same error. Huh. Maybe the hard drive got jarred loose somehow. Sam heaves a sigh and flips the computer over. He has to go back to his room and toss his bag to find a small screwdriver. He opens up the access panel and lets out a small noise of disgust. The hard drive is missing. Shit, Dean.
He needs to find a computer. He could probably walk to the library, but he doesn't know where it is and he doesn't want to take the time to find out. It's maybe not the best of circumstances to ask for a favor, but he does need to talk to Kelly before he leaves.
Sam's standing with his hand poised to knock on Kelly's door when the surreal feeling sweeps over him again. Laughter tries to bubble up from some unhinged place inside him. Hey, neighbor, just need to borrow your computer for awhile, okay? Fuck.
Jax comes to the door with her. He goes wild when he sees Sam, jumping up on the screen like he's going to come straight through. Kelly laughs and grabs him by the collar.
"Dumbass," she says, as she opens the door.
"Yeah, I probably deserve that one," Sam says. Kelly smiles at him.
"I meant the dog, but if it fits…" she shrugs, looking at him and waiting.
"Kelly, I'm really sorry about last night," he says, reaching down to scratch Jax's ear just to have something to do with his hands.
"I appreciate it, Sam, but it's not your fault. You can't pick your family."
Sam winces slightly. "No, I mean…Dean's not usually like that, he's just…" Sam breaks off. He can't think of anything that will make sense to her. He lets out a breath.
"Anyway, he's gone and I need to find him. I hate to ask you, but can I borrow your computer?"
Kelly gives him a confused look. "Gone? Uh, I guess so, sure."
She gets him set up and logged in, then sits down next to him. Having her right there is a little distracting, makes him self-conscious, but he tunes it out and goes to work. It takes him a while; he has to download some software to do the tracking. He tries calling Bobby while he's waiting, thinking Dean might have gone there to work the dent out of his door panel. He's not surprised when Bobby says no—it's a good eight-hour drive from here and Dean probably couldn't have gotten there yet, even the way he drives. The roadhouse is closer and Sam calls there next, with no luck. Ellen says she'll let him know if she hears anything.
The software finishes and Sam starts it up, plugs in Dean's number. No signal. Dean's shut his phone off. Sam's irritated but not particularly surprised. Dean's got to turn the thing back on eventually—to order a fucking pizza or something. Sam rejects the idea that Dean's gotten a new phone already. He'll worry about that when he has to.
He slumps back in the chair and looks at Kelly. She's been sitting there quietly, except when he asked for something.
"I'll just wait a while and see if he turns his phone back on. If that's okay," Sam says, with an uncertain smile.
"Sure. Then what?"
"You mean when I find him?"
Kelly nods.
"I have to go get him."
"Really?" She raises her eyebrows. "Because…I'm sorry, Sam—I see you're upset over this and I can't blame you but…you know, your brother's an adult…maybe he just needs some time."
He looks at the floor. "No," he says, shaking his head. "Dean doesn't do this, just run off. This is something else."
"So last night—that was 'something else,' too?"
It's a legitimate question and God knows she's earned the right to ask, but Sam can't form words to answer. His shoulders are drawn up into knots and so is his stomach. Every reply he can think of feels disloyal or untrue.
A red dot flashes on the computer screen. Sam's seldom been more relieved.
"Got him." Sam slides the mouse to the location. He's not smiling when he meets Kelly's eyes. "Guess I'm going to Jackson Hole."
He just has to figure out some way to get there. He pulls the credit card out of his wallet and brings up the account on the screen. There should be enough left on it to rent a car. Sam types in the password, then makes a disgusted noise. The account's been closed.
Sam starts to figure out his next move, sorting through ideas and options in his mind while wondering what the hell is going through Dean's. Dean doesn't know him at all if he thinks this is going to stop Sam from coming after him. And why is he trying so hard to do that anyway? What were you thinking, Dean?
Then it hits him. The answer is sitting right in front of him.
Dean's decided that Sam belongs here, with Kelly, and he's done everything he can to make him stay. Sam looks at her then, and he can see it. She is everything he wanted once, and he lets himself think about it for a minute, lets a picture form of what life with her would be. It's like a nice dream, too fragile to stand up to the storm that's coming. If he's got to live his life under a shadow, he's going to face it head on, not hiding, and especially not dragging somebody like Kelly into the dark with him.
He rubs his hands over his face and when he takes them away, he can see it in Kelly's eyes—she knows he's made up his mind. He stands up to go and she walks to the door with him. She steps in close, but they don't touch.
"You're not coming back, are you?" Kelly asks. Sam frowns, opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. Kelly shakes her head.
"Never mind. Stupid question," she says. She puts her hands against his chest and dips her head, before she raises her eyes to him and speaks again.
"Sam, I get it, I really do. He's your family. It's just…I have to say…this right here? It feels a little like you're running away." He doesn't have an answer for that. She studies him for a moment, then continues.
"Where does it end, Sam? Is this the life you want?"
He closes his eyes for a second. He thinks it's the first time anyone's ever asked him that, but it doesn't matter anymore. There's really only one answer left.
"It's the only life I have."
**
It's cold and getting colder, big fluffy snowflakes already starting to fall, when Sam walks out of the little house for the last time. He's dressed in as many layers as he can, left behind everything he can't comfortably carry, although he didn't have to get rid of much. Dean took all the weaponry, the really heavy stuff.
He heads toward the downtown area, walking fast to warm up. His bad ankle complains insistently at first, but subsides to a dull throb he can mostly ignore after a few minutes. There's a pawn shop on the main drag and he makes that his first stop, coming out with another hundred and fifty dollars in exchange for the disabled laptop. That and the cash Dean left him should take him the five hundred and some miles to Jackson. He just needs a way to get there.
He walks casually down the street, weighing his options. It's a small enough town that some of the parked vehicles aren't locked, but he's getting nervous about attracting attention when he finally finds the ten-year-old pickup truck. He would have liked four-wheel drive with the way the snow is already coming down, but he figures it'll do. He slides into the passenger side. He pulls out his knife and strips the wires, has it started in a few seconds.
Sam looks at his watch as he pulls on to the interstate. The snow is blowing across the road, but it's not slick yet. It's an eight-hour drive. He settles in for the ride.
The radio works, but there isn't much for it to pick up once he gets out of range of Denver, and Sam's stuck with his thoughts for company. He's jittery with tension, stretched taut between what he's leaving behind and what's ahead of him. Kelly's not going to be easy to forget and Sam's not sure he'd have it any other way, but there's just nothing there for him. The only thing to do now is to find Dean and get them back on the road. Let Dean function in his natural element, and Sam can try to figure out some purpose to this mess they're in, something he's good for.
The snow doesn't slow Sam down much and he pulls into Jackson about nine o'clock. He knows where Dean's staying from the GPS, and it only takes a few questions aimed at the female desk clerk to find out what room he's in. The Impala's not there, but a few more questions about the local night spots narrow it down quite a bit. It doesn't take Sam long to locate the car, in front of a bar called "Jake's Place."
Sam walks inside and up to the bar, taking the place's temperature and ordering a beer. Jake's is not big or especially busy. Most of the patrons seem to be men sitting alone, quietly and diligently getting drunk. He spots Dean quickly, shooting pool with another guy in the back. Sam takes his beer to a booth situated in Dean's line of sight, waits for him to finish his game.
The game ends, but no money changes hands. Dean slides into the booth opposite Sam, not looking particularly surprised to see him. Of course, he doesn't seem all that happy about it, either.
"Why are you here?" Dean asks dully, eyes red and tired-looking.
"I could ask you the same thing," Sam replies.
"It's my job, Sam. Why can't you see…" Dean pauses, sighing heavily. "What do you want from me? You're on your feet again. Go back to your girlfriend, your little house in the suburbs…your fucking dog, for Christ's sake."
"Dean, we've been over this. That's not my life. What are you trying to do?"
"I'm doing my fucking job, Sam," Dean says heatedly. "This is what I do.You don't need to be here; you have options."
"Options? Seriously? Fucking death visions! Tell me, Dean—how do I opt out of those?"
Dean leans forward, frowning fiercely. "Keep your voice down, you idiot!"
Sam stands up and looms threateningly over Dean. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean! What's it going to take for you to get that?" Sam says, raising his voice, but not quite yelling.
Dean's up and in his face in a heartbeat, and Sam's not ready for it when Dean gives him a hard shove. He stumbles back, toppling a chair.
"Get out of here," Dean grits harshly.
"No." Sam says, staring him down. Dean closes his eyes for a second, turning his head and body away. Sam doesn't see the roundhouse right coming.
Sam's head snaps back and he staggers. He tastes blood and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He hears a yell from off his right shoulder, sees someone approaching out the corner of his eye. This is getting him nowhere. Sam warns the bouncer off with an outstretched palm, says, "It's okay. I'm leaving." He gives Dean one last look and walks out.
**
Dean waits until the door closes behind Sam before he sits back down. He's not feeling particularly good about hitting his brother, but he'd do a lot worse to get him out of this life for good. Dean has the hard drive with all their research on it and Dad's journal. That's all he needs.
Dean rubs his eyes, and even he can't ignore how his hands shake. Shit. Maybe he can call Sam in a week or two and smooth things over or something. Things will never be like they were—Sam was right about that even before what happened to Dad—but maybe they can figure out something else, some other way to be brothers again. Dad wanted him to save Sam; maybe this is how it's supposed to be.
Dean drinks, killing another hour before he decides to head back to his room. He grabs a six-pack and some food on the way. He's not hungry, but he's got work to do tonight—phone calls to make, some leads to check out before tomorrow.
He sees it as soon as he walks through the door of his room—familiar jacket lying on the bed. Dean's seen it in a hundred other motel rooms, draped across the seat of his car, balled up under Sam's head for a pillow. Damn it, Sam. Dean's too tired for this shit.
He looks for him, has almost decided Sam's not in the room when he sees him, lying on the floor between the beds.
"Sam?"
Another goddamned vision.
**
Epilogue"Um, Kelly, this is Sam. I found Dean, but, well…something's come up in Oregon and we're headed out there. I just wanted to say thanks, you know, for everything…anyway, yeah. Just wanted to let you know. Bye."
Sam thumbs the call end button and climbs into the already running Impala. Dean drives west, doesn't speak. He probably thinks Sam is fighting the post-vision headache, and he is, but the pain isn't the only thing rattling around in his head.
Where does it end, Sam?
Sam thinks Kelly asked the wrong question. What matters is how it ends. And who he is when the end finally comes.
Sam closes his eyes, thinking maybe he can doze a bit, ride out the rest of the headache. Dean's voice startles him.
"So…we really don't know what we're getting into here. Are you sure you're up to this?" Dean asks, glancing over at him.
Sam looks at him briefly, then turns his eyes to the road spinning out in the headlights.
"You know we have to go, Dean."
Dean persists. "I just don't want you going in there at half-speed, you know, with your bad foot and all."
Sam looks at him long enough that Dean raises his eyebrows questioningly, then says, "I'm not worried about it. You've got my back."
Dean's mouth twitches slightly. Sam would like to think it's a smile.