Jailhouse Talk
K Hanna Korossy

"They shouldn't be allowed to do this," Sam said darkly to the whitewashed cinder block wall and the high-set barred window.

"What, arrest us?" Dean asked from behind him. "I think those shiny little badges they carry say they can."

"No, I mean—" Sam turned back, one hand rising in a vague gesture, "—just lock us up on Jay's say-so, no formal charges, no complaint filed. It's not legal."

Dean shifted a little but remained leaned forward on the cot, arms resting on his thighs. "Yeah, well. We should be thankful they haven't printed us yet, lawboy. Not gonna take 'em long to figure out they've got two dead fugitives on their hands when they do."

Sam blew out a breath and turned back to the wall, hands shoving deep into his pockets.

Maybe Ruby had been right. Seals were being broken—more than half now—the apocalypse was coming, and where were the Winchesters? In a small-town jail thanks to a rookie mistake while investigating some parlor trick gone wrong. It was beneath them, and it was a detour none of them could afford.

And then there was Dean's little morale-booster speech…

"Hey," came absently from the direction of the cot, "you think I still have the same fingerprints from before Cas did his mojo? 'Cause if not, that could come in handy." Dean chuckled. "Heh. Handy."

Sam's jaw shifted, and he tilted his head at the wall. "You know, it wasn't that long ago that you were worried every time we got arrested that it would end up on my record and I wouldn't be able to go back to school."

There was a pause: confusion, if the tone of voice that followed was anything to go by. "Well, yeah, but…you don't want to go back to school anymore. I mean…Stanford Sam is dead, right?"

Sam wheeled around. "That's not the point, Dean."

His brother had sat up, his face pulled into a frown. "Then what is the point, dude? Enlighten me."

"I want to know when that changed," Sam pushed. "When you just…gave up and decided we were both doomed. Because ending 'sad or bloody'? That's not what you used to tell me, man." Not about Sam's future, anyway. "When did that become the new plan?"

Dean stood, leaning in to Sam, his face tight with anger. "Oh, I don't know, maybe with the start of the Apocalypse? Or maybe with you embracing your powers? You tell me when you changed, Sam."

Sam's teeth ground together; Dean wasn't quite calling him a monster, but it was close. "So that's it? You die, I do what I need to to keep fighting, and you give up on us?" He shook his head. "Nice, Dean. Thanks for having faith in me."

Dean also shook his own head, but almost sorrowfully. "I wasn't the one who lost my faith, dude."

Sam glared at him, then flung himself back to face the wall, furious that his eyes were burning. Because it was true; he didn't have faith Dean could save him any longer. But that wasn't Sam's fault, either. He'd never asked to be brought back to life, to send Dean to Hell, to be left alone. He hadn't asked for Azazel to pick him in the first place. And if he agreed to do what Dean wanted now, stuck his head in the sand and kept his hands clean, there would be no normal life—no world at all—for Sam to return to. It was lose-lose: why couldn't Dean see that?

Dean had always believed in him, just as Sam had kept the faith for his brother. If that wasn't true anymore…well, then he'd just have to save them both, right?

There were footsteps in the hallway. Sam didn't turn at the clinking of metal on metal or the holding cell door squealing open.

"Charges have been dropped. You're free to go."

"Awesome." A pause. "Sam?"

Sam nodded, swallowing before he turned back, his face set. "I'm ready."

He didn't look at Dean the whole way back, and his brother never said a word.

The End