Author: Mirrordance
Title: Open, Shut
Summary: A street prophet foresees a deadly disaster. He goes to the only people who would believe him: the Winchesters and Bobby Singer. It's an open and shut case except the only solution is- how do you empty a town of four thousand people? Post-Family Remains.
hey guys!
First off, thanks to all who read, alert-ed, favorite-d and especially all who reviewed the first two posted parts of Open, Shut. To those wonderful reviewers, I hold you explicitly responsible for the quick posting of this next part; I did warn everyone that when I get excited about responses, I get undisciplined and post quickly, haha :) Thank you for taking the time, and I do hope everyone (reviewers, lurkers, skimmers, quiet readers, just everyone) enjoys this next part.
Note though that I am just a little bit apprehensive about this because this chapter raises a potentially debatable character issue (I give Dean an OCD-like preoccupation with numbers that I promise will make more sense later, haha... Hint though: in 5.11, Dean gets asked "Is there a quota? How many people do you have to save?" and Open, Shut helps take him to the despairing conclusion, which is "All of them.") Anyway, would eventually love to hear what you guys think about that. But that'll be for later, haha. As always, c&c's are always welcome and without further ado, Chapter 2: Count Us In:
" " "
Open, Shut
" " "
2: Count Us In
" " "
"So, what are you thinking?"
Dean looked up at Sam from the writings he was absently making on the outdated newspaper he'd found in the kitchen. He and Sam had some of the crappy meal, but left most of it to their errant host and Bobby, who still hadn't come back.
"Like," Dean clarified, "Do I wanna leave, you mean?"
"Yeah," Sam replied, "I mean we did get burnt here."
"I don't know," Dean admitted, "I mean you guys were right. It's my fault I put all the damn eggs in one basket. Whatever. But something doesn't feel right, though, walking away from this. I mean, what if it's true?"
"Well, how long do you plan to stick around to find that out?"
"A couple of days," Dean replied with a grimace, as he jotted down a few other things, "This whole thing's supposed to happen on a full moon, right, that vision of his? And the next full moon's in what, three days?"
"I'll check but I think so," Sam agreed.
"So we do what we can in that time," Dean resolved, "And if nothing happens, then great and we're outta here. You okay with that?"
"I guess," Sam said with a grim smile, "As long as you try and keep your hands away from Reade's neck, then we should be good."
"I'll try," Dean snorted, as he and Sam turned toward the sound of the door opening. Bobby was dragging Reade into the room by the neck of his shirt, pushing him to the kitchen. The ex-millionaire looked meek and shrunken, his shoulders closed in on himself, body tight and gaze miserable and afraid as he looked at Dean.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I guess I'm a fake."
"You guess?" retorted Bobby, "Tell 'em what you told me."
Reade bit his lip and gulped. "I made it up, all of it. The dream, the numbers, everything. I just really, really needed someone to pick me up from jail and there was no one else but Singer. I didn't know he'd drag anyone else down here. I just really needed help and I had nobody, and then I just had to keep up the lie."
Bobby released his grip on the man's collar and looked at the Winchesters apologetically, "Sorry for hauling your asses all the way down here, boys. I can reimburse the--"
"Don't you dare," Dean told him quickly, tearing his gaze from the pitiful Reade, feeling all traces of his anger ebb, "Not the first time we went into a town on a bust, Bobby. I'm just glad the world ain't ending in a few days, huh?"
"Yeah," Bobby winced, "Hey, I'm driving outta this dump tonight. Got better things to do than getting conned by a damn drunk. You coming with?"
"Well if there's nothing to stay for," Dean said with a shrug before peering closely at Reade's face, "You sure about this, man?"
Reade looked him in the eye sharply, and said "Yes."
" " "
Sam took the wheel of the Impala a couple of hours into their drive, when Dean finally gave in to the need for some sleep. Bobby was driving his miserable car in front of them when Dean pulled over to switch seats with Sam.
Bobby stopped his car too, when he noticed the Winchesters slowing down. Dean, dead on his feet, grumbled and stumbled into the passenger seat, closing the door with finality and leaning against it to sleep. Sam's phone rang and he answered it before stepping inside the driver's seat of the car.
"Everything okay?" Bobby asked.
"Yeah," Sam replied quietly, "My turn to drive 's all."
"Good," Bobby said, "Your idjit brother not sleeping again?"
"You got it," Sam sighed, glancing at the man passed out on the passenger seat, "Guess I'm glad this job's a no-go, if you know what I mean. He needs some time off."
"Hey Sam," said Bobby, "I just got a call from a hunter, further east. You boys go on to wherever you're headed next, I'll go give him a hand."
"Anything we can help with?"
"Nah," Bobby said, "It's probably nothing, and I'm already the back-up. I'm sure you'll find something better to do. And like you said, your brother could use the time."
"Well, just call," Sam said.
"I will," Bobby replied breezily, "And I do appreciate you comin' out, even if it's all for nothing."
"You've always done it for us," Sam said, "Anytime, man. Hey, uh..." he hesitated, "You're sure Reade made all that up, right? I mean, it's okay for us to leave, right?"
"I'm sure," Bobby said, "Absolute certain-sure, Sam. I wouldn't leave otherwise, you know that. Besides, if he honestly thought the world was ending, why the hell would he say otherwise to the only people who'll help him? All's good, son. You boys take care now."
"You too Bobby," Sam said, hanging up.
" " "
Sam pulled over into a motel not far from the state line and just across the street from a brightly-lit diner. Dean had been asleep for hours and Sam was hoping he could take that sleepiness with him to an honest-to-god bed, but his older brother felt recharged upon waking up and had again sank into the delusion that a few hours in the car was all he needed before hitting the next job.
Defeated, Sam let himself be dragged to the diner instead of immediately grabbing a room at the motel. Besides, he was a little bit hungry from their practically non-existent canned dinner.
The brothers settled into a booth, Dean making the automatic request for a cup of coffee and Sam making the automatic effort to try and talk him out of it.
"You're keyed up as it is," Sam scolded him, turning to the waitress, "Give him decaf."
"I need it," Dean snapped at his brother, but he grinned at the waitress, focusing that megawatt version of his standard smile, the one that practically guaranteed he would get whatever he wanted, from anyone. The woman shakily smiled back.
"You've had too much," Sam said and turned imploring eyes on the woman, the 'emo' version of his standard puppy-dog look, the one that practically guaranteed he would get whatever he wanted, from anyone. "Please don't get him any. He's sick."
The woman's eyes widened in mild panic as she turned from one brother to the other before she scurried away, muttering at them to talk it over first and that she'd just come back.
"Nice, Sammy," Dean muttered, rubbing at his eyes, "Nice."
"Whatever," Sam said, rolling his eyes back in irritation, "You need to sleep. We need to stop. So we're gonna have a decent dinner here, and then we're crashing next door before we go anywhere else or do anything else, okay?"
"Who made you boss?"
"You lost your vote when you put all the money in your charge on a bad bet," Sam said primly, "I'm picking up the tab, so I get to call the shots."
"Bitch."
"You can have decaf," Sam said, magnanimously.
"That's for wimps."
"Live with it!"
"I don't wan-"
"Look, a lover's quarrel!"
The brothers' heads shot up at the new arrival, standing by their booth. It was a smirking, dark-haired Eurasian man, standing tall and looming large, all elegant, angular bones, golden skin and small, glinting eyes. He was dusty, for lack of a better term, wearing clothes that fit perfectly, like they once would have been pricey and tailored if he hadn't been using it while rolling down the side of a mountain. He had a bruised cheek and knuckles encrusted with dried blood, possibly from a run-in with someone else's face. He smelled like gunpowder and some sort of herb, and he could have had 'Hunter' tattooed on his forehead at this point.
"Do we know you?" Dean asked, irritably.
"Nope," he replied, scooting over obtusely next to Sam, "Doesn't matter, nobody does. So. The Winchester brothers. Fancy running into you here. The name's Wei."
"Wei like 'Wrong Way?'" Dean said, darkly, "No one invited you to sit here, buddy."
Sam frowned but made room anyway, not wanting to make a scene.
Wei shrugged, "I'll be out of your hair in a sec. I guess not everything they say about you's true, huh? Most of the hunters I know think you're dead."
"I don't mind keeping it that way," Dean said warily, glancing at Sam.
The Winchesters could never seem to reconcile the idea of their general anonymity alongside the fact that they seemed to be fairly well known in hunting circles. Their father had more contacts than they did and seemed -in afterthought- to have been shielding them from a good deal of that subculture for one reason or another. They started out as kids and these men were dangerous, so that was one reason their dad might have kept them away. The fact that Sam had something supernatural running in his blood, and after that Gordon Walker incident a year ago, Dean couldn't blame him.
"You wouldn't believe the stuff that's out there," Wei said, "I've heard everything from you got nabbed by the feds and burned to a crisp in a gas accident, to rotting in hell and the most ridiculous of all, saved by an angel and fighting for God."
Dean's lips curled up in a grin, "You can start a new one if you like. Why does it have to be bat-crazy shit like that? People could just say something like, 'He's married and has 2.5 kids, decided to raise alpacas'."
"Now that's crazy," Wei said, calling for the waitress.
"Hey!" Dean complained, "You ain't stayin'."
"Sure I am," Wei said, "I mean we're gonna have to learn to work together, man."
"What?" Dean and Sam asked at the same time.
"I'm assuming you're here headed for that job with Singer," Wei said, "The street prophet case."
"No," Dean said, "We were on our way out, it's a bust."
"Sure it is," Wei said, sarcastically, "Or what, you wussed out? Shoulda known. The one thing I heard about the Winchesters that I know is true is that when it gets hot, you bust outta the kitchen."
"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, looking genuinely confused.
Wei tilted his head at the other man's expression in wonder. "I heard you were good with earnest, Sam, but I'm actually, actually starting to believe you really don't know what's going on here."
"Quit with the riddles," Deans snapped, "And just spit it out."
"Singer called me about three hours ago," Wei said, "Needed help with a job, I was in the area, so I thought I'd take a stab at it. I'm on my way there now."
"We're going straight to the source," Dean said determinedly, grabbing his phone and dialing Bobby's number.
" " "
"Bobby!" Dean yelled at the buzzer by the massive irons gates, hours later.
"If you don't calm down and stop bellowin'," came the irate reply, "You're gonna be stayin' out there all damn night!"
"Lemme in!" Dean demanded as he stalked to the driver's side of the car and closed the door.
The iron gates swung open and the Impala impatiently swooshed in - a reflection of her driver's frustrations as always - trailed by Wei's graphite Dodge Viper. Dean had both appreciated and dismissed the car when he first saw it parked on the lot. He had whistled, but said as an aside to Sam, "Mid-life crisis, dude."
Bobby and Paul Reade were already waiting by the entrance to the house, and Sam could tell by the way Dean was drumming on the wheel that he was aching for a fight.
He pulled up to a smart stop and then stormed out of the car with "What the hell, Bobby?!"
Bobby put up a calming hand, "Inside."
"No," Dean demanded, "Now!"
"He was trying to save your miserable life!" Reade retorted from beside Bobby, "I told him I knew your faces. I saw you in my dream. You and him," he nodded at Sam, "I saw you die, die along with this town, all right? We wanted you out, but I got the feeling and Singer confirmed it, that shit like that isn't reason enough for the likes of you to leave, so there! Now you know, all right? So get the hell away."
"Is this true, Bobby?" Sam asked, because Dean was still breathing heavily, trying to digest everything.
"Yeah," Bobby sighed, "He's the real deal, Sam, just like I told 'ya. He saw you boys die here, and I can't have that." He looked at Dean meaningfully, "Not another time, not ever again."
Dean flinched and looked away, remembering that they had an outsider in their midst, Wei's sharp eyes narrowing even further as he quietly took in the situation.
"So this town is really gonna die," Dean said carefully, "And everything and everyone in it in a few days, on the full moon. You ah... know exactly how?"
"What sort of a crazy person are you?" Reade demanded, "I just said you're probably gonna die here--"
"The way I see it," Dean said, "We know when this shit is going down, right? We know what's gonna happen and when. What we don't know is how we get to that point. We have a few days to try and stem this thing and one way or another, Sam and I will clear out before the full moon. We can't die here if we ain't here, right? So we work as best we can in the days that we do have. Geez. You coulda just said all this and saved us the time. And the gas." He looked at Bobby humorously, "Now you get to reimburse me."
" " "
"First order of business is to figure out what will cause the explosion," Sam said as the five men camped out in the living room, laptops and papers strewn around them.
"Oh we figured that out right away," Bobby said, "There's a pesticide factory in town. There's nothing else around here that has the juice to completely floor this place. An explosion there could end Finn's Canyon, easy. And the toxic smell fits."
"So, it's still running?" Dean asked.
"Yup," Reade confirmed.
"How's it been running the last few years?" Wei asked.
"It runs smooth and keeps this place alive," Reade replied, "Such as it is. Everyone in town is related to someone who works there. Business hasn't been going well in years, but people take care of it 'cos it's the lifeblood of this place anyway. Regular check-ups and maintenance, the works. And no problems, not for the last eighty-plus years it's been running."
"I reckon it's the eighty-plus years thing we should be worried about," Bobby said gruffly, "When was the last run-through, and who did it?"
"I don't know," Reade said with a shrug, "I never worked there, I don't know anything else about that place, man."
"Probably some government or environmental agency," Dean said, "Or a private contractor. We can look that up and pay their local guys a visit, find out if the plant is having issues."
"We also have to think of the possibility of negligence," Sam piped in, "Or even deliberate sabotage. I mean, are these regular checks being done properly? Will someone profit from this business going bust? Do they have a competitor or someone who wants to take over the business? Has it been recently placed on some sort of insurance? You did say the business has been declining... maybe the owners wanna get rid of it and make money from insurance instead. Or even just a disgruntled employee who wants to burn down the place."
"We also have to think of contingencies," Bobby said, "If the checks turn up nothing, then the only thing we can do is to empty this town out."
"Good luck with that," Reade snorted.
"Bobby's right," Sam winced, "We gotta be prepared for that if that's what this all comes down to. Figure out the resources this town has – cops, firemen, doctors, public transport. We gotta figure out how to communicate evacuation to them, make sure kids don't get trampled, the sick and elderly are evacuated properly, and all of it in good time. We have to figure out how many people there are in this town to begin with, and how large a potential explosion could be. We also need to check out the other towns near here, make sure the people have some sort of shelter to go to after we evacuate them."
"In short," Dean breathed, recognizing the magnitude of their job, "If we can't find and stop what'll cause this explosion, we gotta be fricking FEMA, the merry little five of us."
" " "
Paul Reade handed everyone a different colored Sharpie and pointed at one of the wide, blank white walls of his living room, allowing them to write down whatever they needed to.
"You're kidding," Dean breathed, looking like a kid in a playground. He snatched the black pen from Sam and forced the blue one Reade handed him on to his younger brother.
"So how do we go about this?" Sam asked, accepting the switch nonchalantly.
Dean was bouncing in anticipation of writing something on the wall. He drew out a long, vertical line that was as tall as he was, effectively cutting the white wall in two columns. "Left side is preventing the disaster, right side is surviving it, if it happens."
Sam, ever-anal, wrote down headings on the two columns: 'Prevention' on the left, 'Survival' on the right. "If we want to prevent the disaster," he said thoughtfully, "We gotta look at one: human agency, and two: plant malfunction." He wrote more words as the five men discussed their plans.
"The human thing could be from either negligence or incompetence, or deliberate intent," Bobby went on, "And the plant malfunction thing is just the routine inspections and operations."
"And then if we can't prevent this," Dean added, "Then it's all about evacuation."
The five men studied what Sam had jotted down on the wall. One column went:
Prevention:
A. Human Agency
1. by Negligence / Incompetence
2. by Intent
B. Plant Malfxn
The other column went:
Survival:
EVACUATION
"I can look into the human agency part," Sam volunteered, "Check if they have disgruntled employees, new hires, poor performers, overworked people. I can also read through their financials and the legal books, go see if anyone thinks they can profit from sabotaging the plant."
"Good call, law-boy," Dean said, approvingly, "Hey, Bobby. You think you can do the plant inspections and ops? You've got a more kind-of technical background."
"Yeah, I can do that," Bobby agreed.
"Mid-life-Crisis and I can work on the evac plan," Dean said, pointing his Sharpie at Wei, "You check out what this town is capable of: cops, firemen, transportation, doctors, volunteers, things like that. I'll check out how large this disaster could be, how many people we need to move, where they are, and where and how we can drag 'em to the next town over."
"What do I do?" Reade asked.
"No offense, Paul," Sam said, "But moving around with the 'town crazy' is not going to give us much credibility if we need information or to mobilize people."
"I can do housekeeping," Reade decided, "I'll cook and clean."
Dean smiled slyly at Sam, "So. What's a good cover?"
"Department of Homeland Security sounds about as good as any," Bobby said, "Emergency capability and terrorist prevention spot-checks."
"Sounds good to me," Dean said, "You are the master of all bullshit, Bobby. It's a dark, dark gift."
"Timelines?" Bobby smirked at him.
"We got three days to beat this thing before it hits on the full moon," Sam said, "We can't do anything else tonight. Reconvene tomorrow, and then we play catch up. I suggest we sleep," he looked pointedly at his brother, "Timing's tight, we might not get another chance to rest 'til this is over."
" " "
Sam woke to the dull, small sounds of a keypad suffering beneath agitated fingers. He opened his eyes, the sight of Dean's hunched back sharpening as he blinked to clear them. Dean was sitting on crossed legs facing the wall, and his arms and elbows moved busily.
"Go back to sleep, Sam," Dean murmured, not even turning to look. Sam marveled at how he could have known he was awake, until Dean turned his head slightly and explained, "Your breathing changes."
"You're creepy," Sam muttered, crawling sleepily toward his brother, "Whatcha doin'?"
"Can't sleep," Dean said, looking back down at the open laptop and sheafs of paper he had in front of him, "Thought I might as well work."
"Did you take any coffee?" Sam asked, mildly accusatory.
"If I did, would I admit it?" Dean replied.
"No," Sam admitted ruefully, "But I'd be able to tell if you're lying."
Dean actually smiled a little. "No, all right? I didn't. I got what you were saying about needing the rest bit, okay? I even took some whiskey to help me out." He shook a half-empty bottle in Sam's direction, "But I really can't sleep, man. I guess a lot's on my mind, 's all. And I don't like having my eyes shut 'cos I don't know them."
Dean nodded his head in the direction of Reade and Wei, who were also on sleeping bags in the large living room. They had all chosen suitable 'camping spots' in various corners for the night.
"We can take shifts--"
"I can't sleep anyway," Dean shrugged, "You might as well get the shut-eye. Hey, Sam. You know how many people are in Finn's Canyon? About four fricking thousand. If we had to move 'em out, we'd be moving out four thousand people."
Sam winced, "Shit, man."
"We got six regular cops in this town on one station," Dean said, "Eight firemen on one engine. Six on-call volunteers doing miscellaneous things for the town service. Mayor's office is five people in a small house. We got one school, one small hospital, one home for the elderly, one church, one bed and breakfast... fucking nightmare getting everyone out, and there isn't a lot of resources to tap."
"Yeah..." Sam said distractedly, spotting another of Dean's doodle-notes amidst the research.
"It's that puzzle from the newspaper--" Dean tried to say when he caught the direction of his brother's gaze. The excuse had worked before but Sam was weary tonight, and too keyed up about the ramifications of the upcoming job to keep his mouth shut this time.
"Cut the crap, Dean," Sam sighed, "You've been at this for days now."
Dean bit his lip, glossed over the topic altogether, "Hey. How many people did Moses get out of Egypt in the Exodus?"
Sam ran a hand over his face in frustration, "I don't know, all right? We can look it up later. Listen--"
"'Pharaoh,'" Dean cut him off, lowering his voice, "'Let my people go.' All I need is a magical fairy wand."
"A staff, Dean," Sam sighed in resignation, "He had a staff. But I would pay to see you wave a wand around."
"Whatever can help us, dude," Dean said, "'Cos this is beginning to look just as impossible."
"But what else can we do but move forward, right?" Sam said, wearily.
"Hey, uh..." Dean hesitated, "I was thinking maybe I should give you the keys to the car, and you can get outta here."
"What?" asked Sam, "Where'd this come from?"
"I mean," Dean explained, "There's no sense in the two of us dying here."
"No one's dying, Dean," Sam insisted, "We were gonna leave, right, that's what you said? One way or another, we're leaving before the full moon hits."
"But what if..." Dean asked, "What if we get stuck somewhere and we can't? I mean, I don't wanna risk you, I'd rather not risk--"
"Well I'd rather not risk you either but here we both are," Sam said, "I'm not leaving you here, all right? And we're getting out of this town together, no matter what happens."
"But you don't have to be here," Dean argued, "Why risk it if you don't have to be here? I, on the other hand, I have to be here. I have to be here."
"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, "If we had other hunters who could do this now, I would rather we were elsewhere. There are other hunters out there who don't have a credible street-prophet seeing their deaths, man. The only reason we're sticking around to do what we can is because they're not here, we are, and this town is running out of time. But I'm telling you right now, neither of us is gonna be here when that full moon rises, you hear me?"
"I have to be here--"
"Dean!" Sam snapped, "You hear me?"
"Keep it down," Dean told him quietly, looking in the direction of first Bobby, and then Wei. He knew that the rising tone of the conversation could easily wake the other hunters.
"Sam..." Dean said, and his tone sounded so lonely and helpless that Sam quieted and waited for him to continue. They stayed silent for a long moment, making sure that the others were really still asleep. Dean took more swigs of whiskey in the quietness, before suddenly perking up.
"Yeah," Dean said, "I mean maybe I should, right? I'm pretty sure I can fix it. Since you're the genius, you could probably help me work this out."
Sam looked at him like he really had lost his mind, "You sound like you're continuing a conversation that started in your head."
Dean frowned, and then appeared to come to a decision. "Okay, Sammy. There's like, 365 days in a year, right? And ten years, that's like, 3,650 days."
Sam remembered the first number he saw from Dean's diner doodles, "Yeah..."
"So if, if I tortured a soul a day, that's like, 3,650 people," Dean began.
3,650... it had been so precise, Sam remembered when he first saw the number. Dean had once told him that he lost count of how many souls he had hurt, but if he had tortured a soul a day, that made 3,650 victims over the course of ten years. It was why every person they saved decreased that number, as if his actions now could somehow make up for the actions of the past. Every person they lost, Dean added to his debt.
It was also why they were doing too many jobs; the closer that number got to zero, the sooner Dean would be able to find some sort of peace within himself. In the meantime, the nightmares went on, as did the compulsive counting.
Sam stared at his brother breathlessly, not knowing what else to say other than, "I think I know where this might be going."
"I know you do, Sammy," Dean said, before taking another drink off of the bottle, averting his eyes, and disguising his humiliation by rambling on about the comparatively colder math of logic, "3,650 people, man. I gotta make up for it. At the rate we're going, it's gonna take me more than a fricking decade to save that many people. Now I'm trying so damn hard, but I can't go any faster, and I can't carry this shit inside me that fucking long.
"So I've been thinking," Dean continued, and he was getting that slightly manic tone he gets when he was being drunkenly honest and embarrassed, "What if I deducted the people I saved from before I went to the Pit? I mean, that makes a hell of a lot of people. At the start I thought, you know, the old kills shouldn't count because I'd have hunted anyway, so the past shouldn't matter now and I gotta start over. But like I said, I just... I can't go so fast and I'm gonna kill myself trying so damn hard. And then here comes this case... 4,000 people, Sam. One case, and my slate is wiped clean. My slate can be clean in less than 3 days. I can get this damn stain off of me in less than 3 days. I can fucking sleep in 3 days."
He finally lifted his head, and the desperate seeking of approval was crippling Sam, robbing him of words. Dean gulped at Sam's silence, and went on.
"My other concern is," Dean said, "Do dogs count too, you think?"
"...What?" Sam asked, stupidly.
"Dogs, man," Dean replied, as if it was so apparent, "Do they count? And when I lose people, do they add up to what I owe? I think I should add them up. I've been doing that. What do you think?"
"Dean..." Sam breathed, "You don't... you don't owe anybody anything."
"Don't you say that," Dean snapped, before continuing more patiently, "I gotta do this, Sam. 'Cos... 'cos there's gotta be something that wipes the slate clean. Otherwise... otherwise it's just... on me.
"You know what I'm scared of?" he continued, "I popped outta the Pit and I'm still the same guy. Head-fucked but I'm not different. I still know the same shit, decide and think the same way, care about the same things. Hell didn't fuck me in the head and then toss me back out like a monster, some crazy bastard who doesn't know left from right anymore. I'm still me. You know what that means? I was me when I tortured all those souls. I still... I still got it inside me to feel that same... same anger, you know? I can still... can still do that shit, 'cos it's on me..." his voice trailed off, and he was embarrassed again, scratching the back of his head.
"So Einstein," Dean finished, "Blow my mind, all right? I gotta do this. So is the math sound? 'Cos if I can save this damn town, I won't owe anybody anything anymore."
Sam didn't have an answer. He wanted Dean to feel he was saved right this second, wanted him to stop trying to make up for things that weren't his fault.
"You were in hell, Dean," he said quietly, "Everyone breaks, you were supposed to--"
"Never mind," Dean said dismissively, taking another unhealthy swig of whiskey from that bottle that seemed glued to his fingers now.
"Dean--"
"No," Dean snapped, "Just... just math me up an answer or shut up okay? You wanna fix me right? You're gonna fucking fix me, Sammy? This is how. Is the fucking math sound?"
Sam didn't have an answer. He didn't want to indulge this madness, but the fact was that he was at the end of his rope in trying to find a way to help his brother. He can't fix his brother. But saving this town... doing a job... that he could always do. And if that could help Dean, then maybe Sam could find it in himself to jump on the crazy train too.
Dean turned away from Sam dismissively and turned back to his work, even started whistling below his breath in an effort to ignore the little brother who was looking at him thoughtfully.
"It's not polite to stare," Dean growled at him after a few moments.
"The math is fair," Sam said in a clipped tone, before turning away and settling in bed.
Dean soon 'whiskey-ed' himself to sleep – Sam could tell too, by the way his breathing changed. But this time it was Sam who stayed up all night, thinking about his damaged older brother and finding that he wanted to spare this town less for saving people and more for saving Dean.
To be continued...