Disclaimer: Still own nothing.
He thought about it everyday. Every day for four months those words passed through his consciousness. His father's last words, whispered in his ear, breath still condensing on his cheek. It was a secret worth dying for, one he'd never share. Not with anyone. Certainly not with Sammy.
He could never know, Dean had sworn to himself that he never would. Those words might still reverberate in his ears, but the secret died with Dad.
"Dad's dead, Sam," he says, finally. It's the first sound either of them makes after long minutes of silence, nothing but cars rushing by on the freeway outside the parking lot. "He's dead."
Sam sits, still as he can, every movement sending stabs of pain just behind his eyes. He hunches over in the passenger seat, long legs dangling out the open door, and mutters, "I know." Then, gingerly turning round to face his brother, he adds, "But I saw him."
And he had. In a vision. One of those all out brain busting psycho psychic crap visions. The kind that somehow always managed to be right. He told Dean all about it, details spilling from his mouth before he even had time to realize himself what he had seen.
Dad. He was there. But I don't know where. He was there, with some woman, and…and…He had to squint against the pain as Dean carefully lowered him to the car's seat. He had to squint against the pain as he remembered. He killed someone. Stabbed him, a man. There was blood everywhere. And then there was silence.
"You didn't see him, Sam. You couldn't have. He's dead."
"I know, Dean. I know. But…"
"But nothing!" The sheer volume of his voice surprises even him, and he sees Sam wince. He closes his eyes, one long blink, and tries to take a deep breath. But his lungs wobble as the air enters, choking him from the chest up instead of the throat down. He can hear it too, how ragged and hiccup-like it sounds, and tries to cover by talking. But his words, "We saw him die. We burned his body," come out like tear-filled whispers.
The leather of the seat pulls and squeaks as Sam swings his legs in and leans back. "I don't know," he breathes out. "It doesn't make sense, but…that's what it was. Dad."
"Then your vision's wrong."
His head shoots up off the headrest, eyes set in an angry glare. "Right, because that's usually the case."
"Sam," he tries, but finds there are no more words to follow.
"Dean," Sam counters.
"Sam, it's not…it can't…" He clamps his mouth shut and starts up the car, revs the engine, motions for his brother to shut his door. "Where to then?" he asks, hoping his little brother has some answers.
"How are you feeling, John?" Her voice is soft and slow, and he thinks he likes it, thinks it reminds him of someone or something. But he can't remember who or what. He thinks the oddly accented words, the deep sweet drawl would make him smile, if he could smile. But he doesn't seem to know how.
She does though, and when he offers a nod of his head in response to her question, she grins, wide and toothy, down at him. "Bon. We have a big day today, John," she says, flitting away and into the big closet. "Your first day up and about." A pair of pants and a large T-shirt land on the bed by his feet, quickly followed by a flung pair of sneakers. "Well, go on then," she says, still smiling. "Get yourself dressed. It's a big day, John. Grand jour."
He moves slowly at first, his brain working overtime, trying to figure out how this shirt might slip over his head, how he can manage to put his arms through its sleeves. The pants are even more difficult. Sliding his legs through them seems so familiar, but awkward, cumbersome. It takes him nearly five minutes to figure out to push the button through that hole, pull the zipper up.
Then he just sits, shoulders slouched, hands gripping the edge of the bed. He sits and stairs at his bare feet. They're not right. They…need something. He wiggles his toes, scrunches the carpet up in between them.
"John," he hears from behind, and can't help but wonder just what that word, John, means. It sounds so familiar. "Put on your socks."
Socks, of course. He reaches to his left where they sit on the bed, grabs them without looking, slips them on.
"And your shoes," she says, voice laden with impatience. "Put them on." He does. "Now tie them," she says slowly before adding under her breath, "Jamais, jamais encore, ramene a la vie."
"Fine," he says sharply, lurching the car into park. "We're here."
"You don't have to be such an ass about it Dean. I mean, where were we supposed to go?"
Dean looks out the window, squints against the sun. The roadhouse. Of all the places Sam could have picked for them to go for help. They could have just pulled over at some hotel somewhere and picked through the vision some more, found some detail that had slipped his mind before, been over looked. They could have done this on their own.
Or Missouri. She's a psychic for God's sake. They could have gone to her.
But no, Sam had to insist on this…place.
"I don't think they'll be too happy to see us," he says almost to himself, eyes still pointed out at the dirt lot.
"I think they'll be even less happy to hear what we have to say."
Dean turns and flashes a glance Sam's way. "Yeah."
"But," Sam offers, his voice not nearly as raw as it had been some hours before, "they know. I mean, about…me, and these visions and all. And besides, maybe Ash found something and, you know, just hasn't told us yet. For some reason." He looks over at his brother and takes in the cock of the head, pursed lips, raised brows. "Yeah," he says, ducking his head, "that might be pushing it."
Dean stares at him for a moment. Sam. His little brother. Even hunched over like that he's bigger than him. But with the same crazy mop of hair and bashful sort of posture he had at six, Dean can't help but see him as just that, his little brother. Sweet, innocent Sammy, whom he'd always watched out for, always protected. No matter what. And that would never stop. Never. He'd always be there to keep Sam safe.
Even from himself.
"C'mon," he says taking in a deep breath and giving Sam's knee a quick pat. "Let's go greet the adoring fans."