A/N: Hello All,
So this story is very popular, but no one seems to be sending in prompts. I'll be honest, my two other AU's are pretty intense, and they take up a lot of my day-dreaming capacities, so prompts would be helpful in moving this story a little faster. Hurt Sam, hurt Dean, hurt everyone. Just no romance, cause that's not the point. Anyway, enjoy, this chapter took on a life of it's own.
As Always,
EverReader
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
How To Fix a Winchester – Chapter Six
"The Unfortunate Thing About Graveyards"
The were many dangerous aspects to hunting. There was the running and the shooting and the dying, of course. There was the lack of pay, crap hours, zero recognition and don't even get Dean started on holidays.
There was no insurance unless you faked it. There was no time for family or friends. There were crappy diners and skeezy motels with questionable standards on things like cleanliness and laundry.
But, in Dean's opinion, the worst was the waiting.
Wait for a case. Wait for a case to break. Wait for the monster to show up. Wait for Bobby/Sam/John to tell Dean what to shoot at the nightmare of the week so it would die for good this time.
Waiting, of course, had it's own tiers of suckiness, Dean's own personal standard measure of "how much crappier can this get before I start shooting things I shouldn't."
For instance, waiting on Sam at the library. That was a crap level of 2-3, normally. A cute librarian or decent diner nearby could easily drop it to a one.
Waiting for the baddie to show up? Usually a four-five, but the end was usually pretty rewarding, so Dean dealt with it.
A ten on the "Dean Winchester's Personal Scale of Worst Waiting Ever"?
Easy.
Waiting for your stupid ankle which you stupidly broke when you stupidly stepped into a STUPID SINKHOLE in a particularly STUPID, OVERGROWN CEMETARY to heal up.
While your kid brother waited tables to pay the weekly motel fee.
Easily the worst.
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It could have happened to either of them.
It seemed like the ghosts and ghouls and poltergeists always favored the old, uncared for cemeteries, the ones with broken gates and weeds and snakes and worn away, unreadable headstones.
And sinkholes.
It was an unfortunate fact of life that old, run down cemeteries were full of sinkholes, perfectly sized and shaped to break an unwary hunter's ankle.
It happened to all of them at one point or another.
John, Bobby, even Caleb.
Spend enough time in old cemeteries, and it was almost inevitable.
But it had never happened to Dean before.
At first, he tried denying that it was broken (it was, in fact, very much broken).
Then he tried insisting that they didn't need to have x-rays (he did need x-rays).
He tried insisting that he could wrap it himself (it didn't work).
He tried insisting that Sam could wrap it for him (Sam ignored him, loaded him into the Impala, and promptly drove him to the nearest emergency room.)
So now, four weeks later, Dean was stuck in the motel room, watching crap TV (naturally, no pay per view) alone.
Because Sammy didn't like using the fake cards, oh no.
Dean's darling, ethical, MORAL little brother had gone out and got himself a job.
Waiting tables.
At a diner.
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Dean maneuvered his crutches carefully, placing each step with care. Sam had taken the car to work, but, fortunately for Dean, the diner was only a few blocks away.
The door posed a slight problem for him, but luckily a kind looking, older waitress with electric blue eye shadow opened the door for him.
"You must be Dean, Sam's brother." She clicked her tongue at him, shaking his head.
"Um...yeah." Dean said awkwardly, startled that she knew his name. He looked around for Sam, but the kid was no where to be seen.
"He around?" Dean asked cautiously.
"Sure honey, he just ran some take out around the block to Mrs. Henderson, she's taken a real shine to him." Greta, according to her name tag, ushered him over to a booth.
"You just sit right there and I'll get your food." She announced.
"I haven't ordered yet. And how did you know who I was?" Dean asked suspiciously.
"Oh, Sam said you hurt your leg in a shop accident. Those auto shops are dangerous places, I tell you what, my nephew nearly lost a eye once when a piece of a tool broke off an flew at his face. Now he's got a big long scar..." The woman chatted on, glancing around the way a skilled waitress will, checking her tables while chatting like it was an Olympian sport.
"Anyhow, he said you were getting restless, said to expect you today or the next day. He left your order with the cook. You just sit a spell and I'll bring it out in just a few." She bustled off and Dean was left sitting in the booth feeling like he had just survived a small, level four tornado.
Dean tried his best to relax, and quickly enough Greta brought back his food.
"Cookie put a rush on it. Double bacon cheeseburger, fries, dill pickles on the side, black coffee, chocolate shake. Well, at least you eat like a man. I've spent the last week trying to fatten your brother up. A boy that size, eating salad like one of them supermodels. It's not right." She made a face, and Dean laughed.
"You tell it, sister. Been saying that for years." Dean mumbled, taking a bite of his cheeseburger.
It was good, really good, the patty just shy of well done, just the way Dean liked it.
"Whose Cookie?" He said suddenly.
"Oh, Cookie? He's our cook. Cookie's not his real name, of course, it's Charles or something, but he's been here longer than the linoleum. Everyone just calls him Cookie." Greta said, eyes scanning her tables again.
Dean glanced forward, looking through the open back counter, to see a rough, grizzled, older man who looked to be the furthest thing in the world from someone Dean would ever willingly refer to as "Cookie".
"Right." Dean said, trying not to smirk. "Any idea when Sam's due back?" He hadn't known Sam was running take out orders, that could get dangerous.
Granted, the town was as dull as dried mud, but that wasn't the point.
"Well, hon, here he comes now. Sam, darlin' your brother's shown up, just like you said!" Greta hollered in her two pack-a-day smokers voice.
Sam came in the door, breathless and smiling a little.
"Thanks Greta, you're a life saver." He said, smiling down at her, and Dean had to look away to keep from laughing as she did everything but pinch Sam's cheek.
"Don't worry your head over it, hon. You running those orders over to Mrs. Henderson every night saves my poor feet like you wouldn't believe." Greta smiled at him adoringly.
"Dean, you okay? Ankle hurting?" Sam asked, turning to his brother.
"Nah, it's fine. Just got stir crazy." Dean said, leaning back, replete after his very satisfying meal.
"Cool. You wanna wait here, my shift's only another two hours or so. Or you could take the car. If you walked this far, you could manage to drive a couple of blocks." Sam offered, searching his brother's face for any sign of pain.
Dean frowned. "Nah, man I'm cool. If you don't need the booth, I'll just people-watch. Beats the cable around here."
Greta laughed. "Ain't that the god's honest truth. Listen, Sam honey, the rush will only last about another hour then we'll be deader than a door nail. Help me through the rush and you can take off afterward."
"You sure?" Sam asked in concern, turning his puppy dog eyes on her. "I don't want you to have to close alone."
'Oh, sweet heart, don't you worry. Cookie's here and if he can't handle it, I'll just shoot the fuckers." She smiled sweetly and Dean nearly choked on his milkshake.
"Oh." Sam said with a perfectly straight face. "Well, thanks Greta. Want me to grab this five top coming in?" He said, nodding to the door.
"You got it, cupcake." She said with a smile, bustling off to refill the coffee cup of an older man at the counter.
Dean waved his brother off and settled in, watching Sam work.
If he were honest, he'd expecting Sam to get fired by day two, day three at the latest. T
he kid had been all kinds of clumsy growing up, breaking more dishes than Dean could count.
He should have taken Sam's little boy charm into account though. What Grandmother in the world could fire Sammy Winchester?
But as he watched Sam work, he realized something.
Sam was really good at his job. He took orders easily, keeping the separate requests straight no matter how convoluted the order. He called the orders out to Cookie like an old pro, and he balanced the heavy trays easily.
Dean supposed it wasn't too surprising.
Sam had grown up eating in diners, so knowing the lingo wasn't that strange. And Sam was scary smart, so maybe keeping the orders straight on the first try, every time was just par for the course for him.
And he'd obviously grown into his long arms and legs, his abilities as a hunter had proven that.
Still...
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Dean waited until they were home to question Sam.
They were relaxing in front of the TV, Sam eating a fried chicken salad while Dean munched on an order of onion rings the cook had thrown in their bag.
Trying to gauge his timing, Dean said casually, "So, you're pretty good at this whole waiting tables thing, especially since we've only been here, what, two weeks?"
Sam stiffened, just a little, but Dean wasn't Sam's big brother for nothing.
"Well, yeah. I guess it's just natural talent." Sam laughed awkwardly, and Dean marveled that his little brother, who could be heart-stoppingly convincing when he was undercover, still couldn't lie to Dean to save his life.
"Huh. It's weird, but if I didn't know better, I'd say you'd done it before. A lot." Dean said, watching Sam from the corner of his eye.
"Huh." Sam mumbled, standing up and moving to throw his salad container away.
"Sam." Dean said the word with a smile, unable to understand what was making his brother feel so awkward.
"It's nothing. I just waited on tables back at Stanford sometimes." Sam said, looking everywhere but at Dean.
Dean frowned, confused. "Dude, you had a full ride, right? Dorm, meal plan, books?"
"Um..." Sam rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. "Well, yeah. Yeah, I did, and it covered all that stuff. But there were still expenses."
Dean frowned. "Oh, like your laptop? They didn't provide that? You shoulda just called."
Sam shrugged. "Dad was pretty pissed off when I left. You didn't say much one way or another. Didn't seem right to ask for pin money."
"Jeez, kiddo. I would have got you a laptop." Dean shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like thinking about those three and a half years Sam was away.
He also didn't like the look on Sam's face, or the fact that he wasn't making eye contact.
"Sam." This time his voice was terse, and Sam sighed.
"Dean, man, this is all old news, it's water under the bridge." Sam hedged and Dean slapped his hand down on the table.
"SAM!"
"Jeez, alright, alright already. Okay, yeah, I needed a computer. And clothes, shoes. School supplies, sheets, that kind of stuff. And I had to support myself during breaks when the dorm cafeteria's were closed." Sam said, still looking anywhere but at Dean.
Dean frowned. He'd never really thought about some of those things. Sam had said the words 'full ride' and in Dean's mind, it had sounded like the school would take care of those things.
"You mean, you didn't get an allowance or something?" Dean asked awkwardly.
"It doesn't really work that way, Dean. Sure, there were mattresses in the dorms, but we were expected to provide our own sheets and towels and stuff. It's not like a motel. Pencils, pens, bus fare, shoes. Those things were all on me. So I waited tables."
Dean scowled. If he'd had any idea, he would never have let Sam go off without provisions. Then Sam's other words caught up to him.
"What did you mean, the school's cafeteria's were closed on breaks." He demanded, not liking the implications.
Sam pressed his lips together, but finally relented at the look on Dean's face. "Like, holidays and stuff. Most kids went home, so they shut down the cafeterias. I could still sleep there, I was just responsible for feeding myself."
A pit of unease was growing in Dean's stomach. "What about Summer vacation?" He said.
Sam looked at him for a moment. "The first two years, I went to Bobby or Pastor Jim's or both. Wherever you and Dad weren't at the time. The last two years I qualified for the summer program, so I received a housing allowance year round. Jess's parents were pretty well to do, so they gave her housing money as long as she kept her grades up and we got the apartment. It was subsidized because it was on school property."
Dean shook his head. "That's four summers, man, but you left at the start of your fourth year."
Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. "I found out about the scholarship in May, Dean. I only waited about two weeks before I told you and Dad. I didn't think it would go down the way it did. Freshman orientation wasn't until the end of August that year."
Dean stared at Sam, aghast. "Are you telling me you were homeless for two months?"
Sam shrugged. "Bobby took me in. I got a diner job there in Sioux Falls and started saving up. Had a laptop and sheets and stuff by the time fall rolled around. It wasn't like Bobby charged me rent."
Dean's eyes widened. "Is that why he and Dad got in that huge fight?"
Sam shifted guiltily. "I have never...confirmed that." He said carefully.
Dean pushed up, restless, his entire system swimming in guilt. "You should have called me." He said angrily to Sam.
"With what phone?" Sam snapped back, before his mouth slammed shut.
"What?" Dean said, turning back to his brother so fast he nearly fell over and Sam had to reach over and steady.
"My phone." Sam answered quietly. "You know how frequently Dad changed phone plans. You guys switched a few weeks later. I only found out because my phone didn't work."
"No. Dad always had a number for you." Dean argued.
"Yeah, a number where you guys could reach me, because after two weeks, I had enough extra cash to get my own." Sam responded, as if his words weren't tearing a small hole in Dean's universe.
Dean sat down heavily, his stomach swimming with nausea.
Sam was right, they had changed phone numbers frequently. He just assumed John had always kept Sam's line going until the school had gotten him a line of his own.
College was a murky, hazy idea to Dean. He knew how to fix an engine, shoot a gun, woo a woman. He had no idea what constituted a college scholarship, he'd only known that Sam was brilliant, so he'd gotten one.
"Aren't there loans and things, for college kids?" He asked, murky on that subject as well.
"No eighteen year old gets a loan without their parent as a co-signer." Sam shrugged again, and Dean shuddered at the thought of John Winchester signing loan paper work.
"Sam...I didn't know." He said lamely, the words feeling horribly inadequate. His head was swimming with images of a hungry, homeless eighteen year old Sam, and he suddenly needed a drink rather badly.
Seeming to read his brother's mind, Sam went over to the mini-fridge, tossing his brother a beer.
"It's okay, Dean." Sam said. "You and Dad taught me to be self-sufficient. I made do."
"Yeah." Dean mumbled.
But Sam shouldn't have had to.
Dean was far away enough now from that horrible night to know that whether or not John and Dean had wanted Sam to go, things shouldn't have gone down the way they had. Dean had been heartbroken and hurt, and when John had told Sam to go and stay gone, he hadn't said a word.
He'd felt rejected, and at the time, he almost hadn't wanted to see Sam.
That had changed quickly enough however, and now Dean realized just how badly he and John had wronged Sam.
It still hurt that Sam had wanted to leave, that their life hadn't been enough to make Sam happy, but that didn't excuse Dean from being Sam's big brother.
He let his kid walk out without blankets or food or money. Sam hadn't had a phone for two weeks because John had obviously been trying to force Sam into coming back.
John had probably known exactly how badly off Sam was starting, and he'd hoped it would force Sam to fold and give up on school.
Had Sam even realized that Dean hadn't known all these things? At some point he must have figured it out, because otherwise he wouldn't have tried to spare Dean's feelings tonight.
But four years ago, had he known that?
Or had he thought Dean simply didn't care if he was hungry or sleeping on a bare mattress?
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Dean spent the next few days haunted by his conversation with Sam. Self-recrimination made it hard to sleep at night.
Dean took care of Sam. That was how it worked. Dean made sure Sam was safe, that he was fed, that he had shoes on his feet and a jacket that fit.
But four years ago, Dean had screwed up. Sam had just been a kid, hell, eighteen was nothing in the scheme of things. He'd been a kid who'd wanted to go to school, and John and Dean had pretty much told him to hit the road because he hadn't wanted what they wanted.
Dean hadn't checked on Sam, not for nearly two years. He'd thought about him nearly every damn day, but his stubborn pride had kept him away, determined to make Sam break first.
Now he wondered if the reason Sam never had was because Sam hadn't realized that his older brother was an idiot who didn't understand how things like college scholarships and dorm life worked.
Dean was smart, but college had never mattered to him, had never featured in his plans, so he'd never bothered to learn how those things played out.
How many years had Sam spent worrying over whether or not he was gonna have food to eat at Christmas because he thought Dean didn't give a damn? Obviously, something Dean had said or done since they started hunting together had clued Sam in, but still.
When Dean had shown up that first night, in Palo Alto, at Sam and Jess's apartment, had those things been running through Sam's mind?
Dean now had a new respect for just how bad the apartment fire must have been for Sam, not just the shattering loss of Jess, but everything in that apartment, all those stupid little things Dean never thought twice about, like towels and sheets and dishes.
Sam had built that life from scratch, along with Jess, without any help from John or Dean, and he lost it all in one fell swoop, because even after John and Dean turned their backs on him, he agreed to help Dean.
These thoughts and more ran though Dean's mind constantly, until he wanted to scream and break things.
He knew that Sam knew, but Sam never said another word, probably hoping Dean would follow standard Winchester code and completely ignore anything painful, awkward or emotional.
The code wasn't helping Dean this time. Nothing in the Code forgave complete and utter Big Brother Failure of Epic Proportions.
So he made a plan.
It didn't fix things, could never fix things, because life didn't work that way. You didn't get second chances.
But you could always move forward.
He started with Sam's boots and shoes. They weren't too old yet, Dean had bought Sam new after the fire that killed Jess, but that was okay.
He used his poker money to buy Sam a new pair anyway, the good kind, with thick, rubber soles that would grip even in the rain. The kind that had thick laces that held a knot and wouldn't come undone and trip your sorry ass right in the middle of chasing after a black dog.
A few days later, he moved on to socks. Sam had a couple pairs, but he'd picked out the cheap kind for himself, probably worried about money. Dean knew of at least two occasions he'd caught Sam bandaging blisters.
So the cheap socks had to go.
A week later, Sam came home at lunch to find Dean reading the inside label of a pair of his jeans.
"You know those are practically new, right?" He asked.
Dean shrugged. "Good info to know. I might see some on sale. Christ knows we tear the knees out of ours often enough."
Sam made a mild bitch face, but he didn't say anything else.
He also managed to refrain from commented when Dean bought a new blanket to keep in the Impala, just in case of emergencies.
Emergencies happened often enough in there lives, after all.
But the icing on the cake was the phone. It was expensive and the year long plan he'd pre-purchased was even more so, but to Dean it was priceless.
He was damned if another day was ever going to go by without Sam having a way to call him, and he wanted Sam to know it too.
Sam could run away in the middle of the night and move to a nudist colony in Berlin, and that phone would still work.
"Dean." Sam protested when Dean gave it to him. "You realize how crappy a deal a pre-purchased plan like this is, right?"
Dean shrugged. "I asked about five-year plans, but the don't have them."
Sam's eyes bugged out. "That's cause it would be crazy to buy one. Do I even want to know how much you spent."
"No." Dean said decisively.
"You gotta take it back." Sam argued.
"Never gonna happen, Sammy." Dean said dismissively.
"Dean." Sam said, running his hands through his hair. "I know what this is about, dude. That's why I never wanted to talk about it. You didn't know, man. And I was fine, I am fine. Stop spending money we don't have on things we don't need."
"We do need it, Sam. You need it, and I need to know you have it. No matter what, you can always call for help. No one's gonna get mad at you and cancel it, there aren't any conditions. It's yours, and when the year is up, I'll get you another one, whether you're with me or living in the freakin' Hamptons!" Dean responded hotly.
"Dean." Sam said the words slowly, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. "You didn't know."
Dean threw his crutch into the wall. "It was my damned job to know, Sam. I always opted out of the politics between you and Dad, because I cared more about the you and him than the stupid power struggle. But you hurt my feelings, so instead of doing my job, I left you vulnerable. And I'm not doing it again. Taking care of you? That was my job, it was always my job. And it was never about whether or not you were grateful or whether you did what I wanted. That's not how it works. Taking care of you is my job, and I screwed it up. I'm not doing it again, so take the goddamned phone and put it in your goddamned pocket, and go to goddamned work already!"
Sam was silent for a moment, and then he grabbed up his jacket (and the phone) and headed out the door.
A few hours later, Dean's phone beeped as a text came through. He recognized Sam's new number.
"jerk."
Dean laughed a little before typing his reply.
"bitch."