The Truth and Nothing But
Chapter 2
Bobby glanced around his kitchen, nervously checking to make sure no one was watching him, then added a few drops of a red, oily liquid to the pot. It dissolved instantly with little fuss, leaving no trace in the bubbling, meaty goodness.
He breathed it in and savoured the smell. Classic beef and vegetable stew. Perfect comfort food for an injured and traumatised hunter.
Dean knew about the additional ingredient and hadn't approved, but when all was said and done, Sam wasn't getting any better. The kid was slipping further away, piece by piece, shutting himself off. A week after their arrival at Bobby's place, Sam had just about stopped talking altogether. He barely acknowledged Dean or Bobby, and ate and slept like an automaton.
Dean soon gave in to Bobby's insistence, and even made the trip into town to pick up some of the ingredients.
It wasn't a truth serum, per se, more of a relaxant though there were some similar properties.
Like alcohol, it melted the recipient's inhibitions, took down all those carefully erected barriers, allowing them to feel safe and content enough to talk. Unlike alcohol, it was perfectly safe, non-addictive, and didn't leave the recipient drunk, or with a hangover the size of Ireland, come morning.
Bobby did have a recipe for an all out truth serum, one known to be far more powerful and reliable than sodium pentathol, but Dean drew the line at that. Drugging Sam to relax him was bad enough, but he wasn't quite ready to go all the way up to what could constitute a violation of trust. Dean wasn't agreeing to this in order to gain the upper hand, or learn if Sam had any dirty little secrets. He was doing this to help the kid. If the information this little exercise gleaned became torrid, dangerous or shameful, they would deal with it calmly and rationally.
He hoped.
Bobby heard shuffling footsteps coming from the hallway and hurriedly fixed the lid on the glass phial. Tucking it away in his shirt pocket, he turned just in time to see Sam appear in the doorway.
"Kid, what the hell you doing out of bed?" Bobby grumbled at him, and pulled out a chair from under the scarred old kitchen table. "Here, sit down before you fall down."
The kid stopped his shuffling when he saw Bobby and leaned heavily on the kitchen door frame, swaying and blinking.
Bobby sighed. Physically, Sam was healing well, but the gunshot wound had been serious and he'd lost a lot of blood. He exhausted easily – just coming downstairs could be enough to wipe him out – and his pain meds made him sleepy.
Sam gazed at Bobby.
"Dean's just outside, polishing the Impala," said Bobby, quietly, sensing Sam's anxiety. "I was about to call him in for some grub."
Sam nodded and gingerly pushed away from the door. He stumbled over to the table, reaching out to it for support, and nearly went down when his hand missed it altogether. Bobby caught him and pulled him into a chair before the kid could face plant and injure himself all over again.
"Take it easy, Sam," Bobby murmured, and moved back to stir the pot again. "Hope you like beef stew, 'cos there's plenty. Burgers for Dean, of course. Kid won't eat anything else. I swear, he's gonna turn into a cow one of these days, if he eats enough of 'em. Don't know what the cattle industry would come to if he decided to go vegetarian on us."
His chatter filled the uneasy void, even though he knew Sam wouldn't answer.
Out the corner of his eye, Bobby noted how Sam watched him in wary silence. And little wonder.
Sam was probably still waiting for the endless questions to start up again, despite Dean and Bobby having backed off a few days ago, after Sam had finally snapped and refused to come down for dinner.
Without waiting for Dean, Bobby filled a bowl with a generous portion of the spiked stew and set it down in front of Sam, who just stared at it and made no move to pick up his spoon.
Bobby swallowed hard and tried to watch him unobtrusively.
If Sam had figured it out, or sensed something was off, then it was game over. No way would the kid trust him again.
Fortunately, Sam seemed to snap out of it. He looked up at Bobby, nodded his thanks with an accompanying weak smile, grabbed the spoon and dug in.
Somewhere in the house a door slammed, and footsteps clomped towards the kitchen.
"Something sure smells good!" Dean called out.
There came a rustling, as though he was removing his jacket, and seconds later a filthy face peered round the kitchen door, sniffing furiously.
"Oh man, I could eat a whole…"
"Cow?" Bobby remarked, sardonically. He shook his head when Dean just grinned back at him. "Thought so. It's beef stew but…"
"Uh uh!" Dean backed away, greasy palms spread out in front of him, eyes widening. "You know I don't do vegetables, dude. Don't make me get nasty on your ass."
"God forbid you actually eat something healthy," Bobby agreed, reached down, and opened up the grill under the stove, releasing clouds of flavoursome steam. "The world might end. That's why you got burgers."
Dean relaxed, dropped his hands, and went to give them a good scrubbing at the sink.
Sam watched him in silence, peeking out from under his long bangs.
"That's better, huh, Sammy?" Dean planted himself into the chair opposite his brother, noting with approval the way Sam was eagerly slurping up his stew. "Gotta admit, though. The way that smells? I'm tempted."
Sam flashed him a shy grin before stuffing his mouth with another spoonful.
Dean's heart lightened for the first time since they departed the hospital. Sam showing enthusiasm for food was a rare sight indeed, but to see his smile again, no matter how small, was a good sign.
Or it would be, except, it wasn't real.
Dean quirked a brow at Bobby when the guy placed a juicy burger in front of him. Bobby's nod was subtle before he turned back to serve up his own food.
No. Sam's smile was drug induced. A kind of false horizon.
"So, anyway," Dean decided to make the most of it, and grinned back at his brother. "The Impala's all clean and sparkling. Inside and out. What you say we go for a ride after dinner, huh, Sam?"
Sam stopped eating. He appeared to be considering Dean's suggestion with the same level of seriousness he might adopt if asked "where do babies come from?" by a young child.
"Uh, I-I…" he stuttered, cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "D-do you mind if we stay here? I'm still in a lot of pain. Don't think I could take more than five minutes on those ropey old shocks."
Sam blinked, seemingly even more surprised than the other two at his sudden bout of verbal diarrhoea.
Dean wisely pretended not to notice and kept up the brotherly banter.
"Old? Old?" he spluttered, indignantly. "They're virtually brand new!"
"Ok, not old. Maybe ropey, though," Sam replied immediately, with a sly grin.
"Why you…!" Dean, chuckling lightly, quickly tore off a piece of burger bun and threw it at Sam.
It landed in Sam's hair, and he shook his head carefully, tugging the morsel of bread out and dunking it in his stew.
"Well, if you're gonna waste it," said Sam.
He closed his eyes, loaded the gravy soaked piece into his mouth, and sucked on it with glee.
"Mmm. Great stew, Bobby." He turned to their old friend and smiled, gratefully. "Really great."
Bobby was just about to sit down with his own burger, and fervently hoping Sam wouldn't question why he was the only one with stew.
He glanced over at the younger brother and nodded.
"You're welcome, son. You both always are."
They ate their meal, feeling more relaxed than any of them had in days, though Dean was unsure how to proceed at this point.
Should he find a way to lead into it subtly?
But subtlety wasn't his strong point, and coming out and just asking didn't seem right, somehow.
But it was Sam who made the first move.
After dinner, the boys were sitting out on the veranda, watching the sun sliding down the sky. Bobby came out bearing three mugs of thick, dark cocoa, two of them laced with a little whisky.
Sam was given the one without and if he realised, he didn't mention it.
"Last time we were here, I ruined your ceiling," he murmured, suddenly.
Bobby's eyebrows went up in surprise.
"Meg ruined it," the older hunter corrected, softly. He stared pointedly at the kid and added "Not you, Sam. Never you."
Sam hung his head and went quiet for a moment, just breathing in the scent of his cocoa.
Dean frowned, wondering where this was going.
"But I didn't stop her," said Sam, slowly raising his head again.
His gaze was fixed on Bobby but it soon turned to his brother, filled with anguish and despair.
"Just like I didn't stop her from hurting you. And I'll never forgive myself for not being strong enough to fight her, like Dad fought Yellow Eyes back at the cabin."
He sniffed and glanced back at the setting sun.
"And as if that ain't bad enough, I've become a murderer," he said, breath hitching, tears slowly rolling down his face.
He paused to angrily wipe them away with the back of his sleeve.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance, Dean."
"Alright, that's enough!" Dean hissed, cutting him off.
He wanted to find out what happened that night in the motel room, not send his little brother into a spiral of self-loathing.
"You're not responsible, ok? You did nothing wrong!"
"But I…" Sam started shaking his head.
"No!" Dean abruptly stood up, towering over Sam, green eyes glinting angrily in the evening light.
He reached down and gently grasped Sam's arms, pulling him to his feet.
"I don't want to hear any more about this, you understand?" Dean barely resisted the urge to give him a rough shake. "It's a closed chapter. We can't go back and change things, and we can't bring Steve Wandell back to life. We move forwards instead. It's the only way, Sammy, and you holding onto your guilt over something you had no control over helps no one, and you dying is not going to make anyone feel any better about it."
"It sure seemed to help his daughter feel better though," said Sam, quietly, staring at Dean. "If only for a while."
"You…" Dean stopped when it dawned on him, and his eyes widened.
Sam nodded.
Dean's face was a picture of turmoil.
He should have realised it sooner. All the signs had been there.
"Alright, kiddo," he murmured, reaching up and rubbing the boy's neck. "Let's sit and talk this out, huh?"
Carefully lowering Sam back onto the veranda steps, he sat beside him, one arm slung around the kid's thin shoulders.
"Tell me…?" he asked, softly.
Two weeks earlier…
"I'm starved!" Dean yawned, widely, and stretched like a cat the minute he was out of the Impala.
Ignoring the twinge in his shoulder, he grinned across the car roof at his little brother.
"Gonna get some food. You want anything, Sammy?
Sam climbed out of the car, wearily, and smiled back at him.
"Nah, you go ahead and feed that insatiable appetite before it mugs some poor bastard in the street," he replied, swinging the passenger door shut. "I'll go find us a room."
Dean studied him closely. "You sure? When was the last time you ate anything?"
Licking his lips, Sam nodded. "I ate breakfast, Dean."
"You had coffee and an apple, dude," his brother replied, eyes narrowing. "And that was seven hours ago."
"If you know," Sam huffed, moving to open the trunk and grab their duffle bags. "Then why ask?"
Dean looked away, unconsciously checking out their surroundings and monitoring everyone in sight. A young woman caught his eye. She was young, pretty, dark haired and petite, definitely his type. When he winked at her, she blushed and hurried onwards down the street.
That was weird.
Not the blushing. No, Dean Winchester, notorious rake and proud, self-confessed sex addict expected that part. It was more how she seemed so anxious to get away from him. He almost felt offended.
Unperturbed, he shrugged and turned back to his brother, who was watching him with some amusement. Dean ignored the obviously pending snark about his appetite for food matching his appetite for sex, and got back on to the original topic.
"Look, I'm just worried about you, ok?"
Sam's amusement was gone in a flash, and his mouth turned down.
"I'm more worried about your shoulder," he said, voice hoarse with regret.
Dean wasn't about to make a big deal out of it, even if the damn bullet wound did still hurt like a bitch.
"Dude, its fine. Jo pulled the slug out, wrapped it up… it's healing," but he didn't miss his little brother's flinch.
Open your mouth a little wider… just a little more… there!
Now you can get the laces in, dumbass!
Mentioning Jo Harvelle probably wasn't the best of moves at this point. Sam had enough to feel guilty about, and bringing the girl's name up was likely rubbing salt in the proverbial wound. Albeit, unintentionally.
"Look, we'll talk about this when I get back," said Dean, hoping to buy himself a little time to figure out how to approach this. "But, Sam?"
"Yeah?" said Sam, dolefully.
The look Sam cast him was weighed down with misery and it almost broke Dean's heart.
"You're gonna eat, ok?" he put up his hands in surrender. "Just for my sake, huh? Put my mind at ease?"
Sam sighed and nodded.
"Attaboy."
Later that evening, under Dean's watchful eye, Sam consumed two slices of pizza, a thick chocolate milkshake, and some cherry pie.
"That's better," Dean proclaimed, rubbing his belly with deep satisfaction. "Ain't that better, Sammy? World always looks a little brighter after some good food."
"If you say so," but Sam had to smile. He did feel a little better after eating something, but he wasn't quite ready to concede the point. Dean was insufferable when proved right.
"I do say so," said his brother, getting up and throwing on his leather jacket. "And I also say that a few beers at the local bar will work wonders… what?"
Sam was already shaking his head before Dean had even finished speaking.
"Nah, I'm bushed, man," Sam jerked his head at the motel room door. "But you go have fun, huh? I'm gonna take a shower and hit the hay."
Dean was more than a little disappointed, if he was honest, but Sam did look really tired. The brothers still didn't know the full story of what Meg got up to with Sam's body during his possession, so it was quite possible the bitch kept him up partying, night after night, polluting him with smoke, drugs and God knew what else.
Dean was still in two minds about getting the kid checked out by a doctor, but when he'd brought it up Sam had - surprise, surprise - stubbornly refused.
"Ok," said Dean, reluctantly.
He was tempted to stay behind but, judging by the look on Sam's face, that would have made him feel even guiltier about the whole thing.
"I won't be late." He turned to go when Sam spoke up again.
"Take all the time you need," his brother said, softly. "You deserve it, dude."
Dean hid his smile and left for the bar.
Sam watched the door close, and let loose a breath in one sharp exhale. It might have been fun to go with Dean after all, but he really did need some sleep. And a hot shower.
For once, this particular motel was actually pretty clean, even if the bright purple décor made the eyes water. At least the TV worked ok, just a shame it was a rickety old black and white.
Sam regarded his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a purple, plastic monstrosity with pink hearts embedded in the frame.
He remembered a little of his time with Meg at the helm, recalled the claustrophobia of being trapped in his own body and the loss of control.
It had terrified him.
It still did, in fact.
Little pieces of the puzzle came to him in his sleep, tormenting him; small fragments of memory, like the shards of a broken mirror, came together to show him what he'd done.
He'd hurt Jo. He'd almost… almost…
Sam couldn't even bring himself to say it in his head. He'd never forced himself on a woman, let alone hurt her, and it made him sick to his stomach that he'd nearly done both to Jo Harvelle. Why Meg had stopped he didn't know, and refused to ponder it too closely. Perhaps it was a simple matter of time constraint.
He'd also shot and beaten his own brother.
Sam could still feel warm blood on his fingers from when he'd ruthlessly dug them into Dean's shoulder wound.
And then there was Steve Wandell. Throat opened up for all the world to see.
Sam growled and swung at the hideous mirror with an elbow, not even feeling a twinge when glass became embedded in his skin.
Blood dripping down his arm, Sam stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. Setting the water temperature as high as he could bear, he stood, naked and still, head bent, letting the grime and dirt wash away and wishing his sins could be cleansed so easily.
He had no idea how long he'd been standing there, but the blood circling down the drain from the cuts on his arm, and the sting of hot water in the shallow wounds, woke him up enough to grab the shower gel.
After a good scrub, he picked pieces of mirror out of his skin, poured on some more gel and rinsed off.
Feeling clean, but still exhausted, a few minutes later Sam shut off the water, relieved to note that his arm had stopped bleeding.
He had a decision to make. Stay here and wallow in self-pity, or get out there and have some fun with his brother. He could tell from the look on Dean's face that he'd wanted Sam to come along.
Sam's mouth twisted as he thought about it, drying himself off on a rough, worn towel, and made up his mind.
Out in the bedroom, he pulled out a clean pair of jeans and a shirt.
Now that he was warming to the idea, he was kind of looking forward to spending some quality time with his big brother.
Perhaps, it was because he was so wrapped up in his thoughts, or because he was more tired than he realised, that Sam didn't notice the small, dark haired girl on the sofa. He pulled on his clothes and turned to grab his wallet from the nightstand, only to come face to face with a mean looking .44.
Where the hell did she come from? "Uh…" Sam slowly held up his hands, palms outwards. "Hi there!"
She didn't respond to his big, friendly smile, nor did she seem impressed with his trade mark puppy eyes. In fact…
The girl snorted, angrily. "Fuck you."
Definitely hostile. "Let's just take it easy, ok?" he said, reasonably.
"Is that what you told my Dad?" she hissed, getting up off the sofa with a catlike grace that just screamed hunter! "Right before you slit his throat from ear to ear?"
Sam only just managed to keep his jaw from dropping.
Steve Wandell's daughter?
Shit.
TBC...
So, this should be an interesting conversation, eh?
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Cheers,
ST xxx