The Wellspring
Chapter Twenty-Three - Dogs, Bears, Cars, & Spoons
It's snowing when they hit South Dakota, which would be fine with Sam if their freshly stolen car hadn't come complete with a cracked windshield, a broken heater, and a passenger-side window that's stuck three-quarters of the way up with nothing covering it but a torn piece of tarp and masking tape- or if the thrift store coats he purchased in haste yesterday weren't riddled with holes. He tries not to shiver and fails.
"We're fine, Sam," Alec says and Sam blinks and shakes his head a little because it's just now that he's realizing he's twisted around and staring at them. "We have a higher-"
"Body temperature," Sam cuts him off. "Right. I remember." He knows the kid's not lying- he knows both Alec and Ben aren't bothered by the cold in the least because he's looking at them and they're looking back and not shivering at all. This doesn't stop the cold gusts beating against the side of his head, or the chill seeping through his thrift store clearance coat. This doesn't stop the belief that since he is cold, then they are cold, and their heads are without sufficient coverage and he really should have bought them hats yesterday and he's a terrible uncle.
Or whatever he is. They call him uncle a lot now.
"We're fine, Uncle Sam," Ben repeats, and it's dark but Sam can see his earnest eyes, can feel the tension and concern radiating from the boy. "You look cold. D'you want our coats?" Little fingers are going for the zipper. Sam reaches out a hand and grabs the boy's wrist before he can get any further with that plan, because no, of course he doesn't want their coats. He doesn't need their coats. He feels warmer now, if only from the gesture.
The limb in his hand tenses and shakes and Sam realizes that grabbing the kid in such an abrupt manner probably wasn't the best course of action. Ben is looking at him, wide eyes glinting, and Sam internally curses himself before gently setting the hand back down onto the tiny lap. He moves his own hand upwards, brushes two broad fingertips down Ben's cheek, which is soft and warm, and the kid trembles a little before relaxing.
"I don't want your coats, sweetheart. Leave 'em on." The endearment slips from his lips before he can stop it. He doesn't try to take it back.
Ben nods against his hand, though his voice quietly insists, "We don't need 'em. Really."
Sam offers him a smile, strokes the kid's cheek with his thumb and then pulls his hand away. "Thanks, Benny, but I still want you to keep them on, okay?"
The kid lowers his eyes. "Yes, sir."
Don't call me sir. Sam thinks about saying it, but he doesn't. The last thing he needs is for Ben to think he's scolding him, and it would be confusing with the way Dean's been accepting the term of address with smiles and praise and hair ruffling for these past few months. But the kid's eyes are lowered and submissive and Sam finds he can't stand this feeling the grouping of this word and these actions give him. "You don't have to call me that, buddy. Not if you don't want to. Okay? Sam's fine." Ben starts nodding, but then his eyes glaze over and he bites his lip, and Sam quickly rectifies, "Or Uncle Sam. Sam or Uncle Sam. You can call me whatever you want. I just don't want you feeling like you have to call me anything you don't want to, okay?"
"Bobby said we should call him 'sir' if we piss him off," Alec interjects.
"That would be the smart thing to do," Dean says, and Sam turns back around, looks at his brother who has one hand on the steering wheel and the other up to his mouth. Dean's blowing on his cold hand and Sam feels like a terrible brother. He should have bought gloves. "You piss Bobby off, you kiss his ass as much as possible in order to make it up to him. You do this because Bobby is awesome."
You do this because Bobby has Dean's car. Dean doesn't say these words, but Sam knew from the second Bobby announced that he'd gone looking for them, that he'd brought their abandoned home back to the Singer Salvage Yard, that Dean had immediately decided he was forever in the man's debt. Not that they weren't in the first place. Bobby's always been there, has always looked after them when they needed looking after.
They need looking after now. They're getting on, but they're rattled, and broken, and fucked-up shit happened and it's not gone, Sam's freaky psychic shit's not gone, and maybe he's still a monster inside because tiny children with super strength and a terrible childhood looked at him with fear in their eyes. And part of him liked it, and part of him was scared shitless, and he can't control it. He can't control it at all. He freaked out and it happened not once, but twice, and Sam could freak out again, could freak out anytime, and what would break then? What if next time, it's not the people taking them hostage? What if next time Sam freaks out and it's Dean who gets thrown or crushed? Or Alec and Ben?
The back of a hand collides with his arm. Dean asks, "You okay there, Geek Boy?"
"M'fine, Dean."
"Y'sure? Is your face just frozen that way then?"
Sam doesn't know what way his face is exactly, but he shakes his head and socks Dean in the thigh. It's fucking cold as hell and now his stomach is twisting in awful ways and he just wants to get to Bobby's, wants to get warm and maybe drink something stiff and fall asleep.
He shivers and crosses his arms and stares out the windshield, twitches when cold air beats the side of his face, and he stares and stares and tries to zone out to make this ride more bearable when a hand grabs the sleeve of his coat and pulls.
Alec. Alec's climbing up front, into his lap. Kid's a blanket, a hot, electric blanket and Sam curls his arms around the slight torso and brushes his nose over the top of the prickly head.
"Alec, buddy, this isn't safe," he murmurs despite himself. "The car's moving and it's snowing. If Dean crashed-"
"Dad's not gonna crash," Alec says indignantly. "Stop slandering his good name with your hypothetical situations."
Words are just slipping out of mouths tonight, sweethearts and dads and sirs and uncles. Sam closes his eyes and keeps his face nuzzled against the boy's head, wonders if Alec's even aware of his own lapse. Sam feels the tops of his brother's fingers graze against his cheek as they reach to touch Alec.
"We're not Britney Spears, kitten." Dean's voice is touched with warm amusement. "Kids in laps while driving can only lead to nominations for Worst Parents in the World."
"Who's Britney Spears?" Alec asks.
Sam opens his eyes to see Dean shrug a nonchalant shoulder. "Some hot, crazy chick who pumps out a veritable sea of awful music. It's probably best if you don't know about her."
"Okay." Alec agrees easily, melting in a limp mass against Sam. He's so warm and Sam doesn't want to move him. Sam wants to keep him here forever.
"Backseat, Alec." Dean reaches over and pats the smaller knee resting on Sam's gigantic one.
"Uncle Sam's cold," Alec retorts. "I'd do the same for you if that stupid steering wheel weren't in the way. M'altruistic like that."
"He's altruistic like that, Dean." Sam doesn't even know, anymore. All he knows is that every time he's felt like shit in the past couple of days, this kid has suddenly been there, reaching for him or burrowing into his side or saying words like, "I don't think you're scary, though, Sam. I think you're badass…" and it's the only thing that's kept Sam from going absolutely insane with all of these thoughts and fears whirling around inside of him.
"There's snow on the ground. If the tires slip and I crash, his head goes through the windshield. You want that?"
Sam sighs, wonders why it's now Dean has to make sense.
"I'm genetically-"
"Alec, I don't want to hear any of this genetically superior shit. Heads through windshields are never okay. Now get your little keister in the backseat."
The kid sighs and grumbles and swears, but he carefully climbs out of Sam's lap and returns to the backseat. Sam chances a glance back, fully expecting the world of sulk he finds on Alec's face and he smiles and reaches back and taps the kid's thigh, stage whispers, "Dean just said keister."
Alec snorts and Ben smiles behind a shy hand.
"Dude, keister is a hilarious word," Dean protests as Sam turns back around. "It's one of the funniest ass words of all time."
"Why are you emphasizing ass?" Sam asks.
"Because ass is the funniest ass word of all time." Sam watches as Dean glances in the rearview, watches his brother's eyebrows furrow nervously. The guy's quiet for a while, quiet like the backseat is quiet, quiet like Sam's quiet, and they've gotta be getting to Bobby's soon when Dean finally clears his throat and his mouth turns into an awkwardly sputtering motor. "Alec, baby, if you needed a…um, cuddle -"
Baby. The kids are turning into the Impala.
"Jesus Christ." Alec sounds mortified. "Don't."
The relief on Dean's face is palpable. "Okay. I won't."
Sam snorts. Actions are fine, words are not. It's the Code of Winchester that might well be as genetic as it is communicative. Dean got it from John. Sam wonders if Alec gets it from Dean, or if he gets it from John, as well. He wonders if John got it from someone else, or if it's just another bitter habit that sprung from the flames of his mother's death.
Whatever.
Sam thinks they should ditch the car before they get to Bobby's, but Dean shakes his head, informs Sam that he's fucking cold and he's not walking any snow-filled miles tonight. They can leave it in the junkyard, deal with it tomorrow, and besides, who the hell is going to miss this piece of shit, anyway?
"Nobody, that's who," Dean says, pointing a single, half-frozen finger at Sam while turning into the salvage yard with his steering hand. The Impala comes into view almost immediately, glinting in the headlights of this junker they've been suffering in all day, and Dean's face breaks out into that smile that he only wears when he and his car are reunited after a too-long separation. "Christ. Look at 'er." He's breathless. Sam's torn between amusement, exasperation, and total agreement. Because look at her. Look at her. She's home.
Dean pops his door open and tears out of the car and Sam turns around to find the backseat is empty. Alec and Ben are already out of the car, are at Dean's heels and then they're all at the Impala, running loving hands over her sides, her hood, her trunk.
Sam stands back for a minute and watches them. This is his brother three times over, two times small and half-innocent, still broken, but this is his brother multiplied and it makes Sam dizzy thinking about it. Dean has six hands and six feet, fifteen layers of skin sheltering the most painful kinds of love and insecurity and need.
And then there's Sam. The one Sam whom they take care of, all of them, in their own little ways, and Sam takes care of them, too, sometimes. When they let him. When they're not driving him crazy. When he's not frustrated to the point of imminent explosion.
Sam shivers and swallows. He could explode anytime. And then there might not be Deans anymore, big or small. He doesn't want to think about this, though. He can't think about this because Bobby's on his porch, asking them why they're out here freezing their asses off.
It's a good question.
"My car, Bobby," Dean calls back, brushing away a heap of snow to rub his cheek affectionately against her ebony roof. "She needs to know we still love her."
Sam's not close enough to see the eye roll or hear the muttered "idgit," but he's pretty sure that's what's filling the space in the time it takes Bobby to say, "I think she knows, boy. Get in here."
They get in there. The cold starts dripping from Sam as soon as he steps into the house. He's a melting icicle standing on this old wooden floor, melting away, and he's almost gone when two strong arms circle him, when a sturdy hand pats him on the back, reminding him that he's still here. Sam inhales. Bobby smells like pine and oil and gunpowder.
"You alright, Sam?"
He's not. Or he is. Sam's not altogether sure, but he thinks he'll be improved, at least, once he can fully feel his skin again. "M'fine, Bobby."
"You're all lookin' scrawny. Did those bastards feed you anything?"
"Some. We didn't eat more than we had to." It's then that Sam realizes that the house is filled with the smell of chili, that Bobby's kept something on the stove for them, that they're not going to be cold or hungry tomorrow or have to walk miles on tired feet because they're here. They're here with Bobby and the Impala. And chili.
Dean clears his throat. Sam flicks his gaze up as Bobby pulls away. Dean's shifting awkwardly on his feet and his skin has that flush to it that means he's already gotten his hug, that it was actually a somewhat long hug that Dean needed, but is embarrassed about taking, anyway. He's smirking to cover this up, of course, like he always does. Sam rolls his eyes and wonders if he really did melt for just that moment, if he really was gone, because he sure as hell wasn't aware at all of what was happening right next to him.
"S'our stuff still in the trunk, Bobby?" Dean asks.
"Living room," Bobby grunts, waving a hand in the general direction of said room. "Go do what you need to do, then come eat."
They don't need to be told twice. Their bags are on the couch and on the floor, and Alec's the first to reach them, ripping into Dean's with zest and yanking clothes out and throwing them this way and that, only stopping when he finally finds what he's looking for. He's careful with the big-pawed stuffed dog, taking it gently around the belly, holding it upright so its limbs flop at its sides, holding it close enough that its plastic nose touches Alec's own. He stares it in the eye like its real. Sam feels like he's invading a private moment until Alec nods in a deciding manner, lowers the plush animal and clutches it against his chest.
He smirks and his eyes twinkle like this display was all a big joke. "Y'know, me n' Alec II are natural enemies, what with him being a dog and all…but I think he missed me."
Dean snorts. Sam snorts. Even Ben snorts. Alec reaches back into Dean's bag before throwing the nameless bear at his brother, who catches it and smiles at it, even hugs it, but doesn't seem nearly as enthralled as Alec was with his own reunion. Dean picks his clothes up off the floor, tosses pairs of Batman underpants at his clones along with two of his own shirts because they're eating and then they're sleeping and it's going to be fantastic, isn't it?
It is.
None of them seem to believe in privacy anymore. They strip and redress in the living room, donning the familiar T-shirts and underwear they've been wearing for months and years. Sam claims the afghan off the couch, wraps it around himself, because he's still feeling that awful cold and he's aiming to either rub it away or smother it to death.
The chili is hot and the house is warm and Sam's eyes are closing as he blows over a spoonful before inserting the delicious, hearty meal into his mouth, rolling it over his tongue and swallowing, feeling the meat and peppers heat his blood and his bones, soothing that aching, empty pit in his stomach that's been festering for nearly a day now. It feels amazing. He opens his eyes.
Dean's sitting between Alec and Ben on the opposite side of the table. They're huddled so close that all their arms are touching. Spoonful after spoonful enters each mouth and each of them is wearing an identical expression of sheer elation with each bite. Not even Ben's being hesitant in his consumption, whereas normally the boy would be savoring his food like Sam savors his. Trauma clearly brings out the instinctual Dean in this kid.
"Tomorrow," Sam tells Bobby, who's standing expectantly over him as soon as four bowls are sitting empty on the table. "Tomorrow we'll tell you everything." Bobby nods and rests a hand on his shoulder, squeezes with warm, strong fingers that lull Sam into closing his eyes once again. He opens them when the hand is gone, opens them to find that same hand fondly scrubbing over Dean's hair, then skimming gently over the two smaller heads.
"Get some rest."
"Thanks, Bobby," Dean calls over his shoulder.
"Get some rest," Bobby repeats.
There are pillows and blankets on the sofa, which instantly get spread onto the floor and toppled onto by Deans. Sam sits himself down on the couch and watches them get situated, watches as his brother joyfully stuffs a dog and a bear under two protesting child-sized arms before tucking a worn paisley sheet and a blanket up to their chins.
"Uncle Sam?" Ben springs up as Dean wedges himself between his boys, looks at Sam with nervous eyes.
"M'gonna take the couch, kiddo."
"But-"
"I'll be right here, Benny." After all, there's no sense in having a couch if you're not going to lay on it. That, and there's something that's simultaneously comforting and devastating about this distance between him and them. Here he can see them, they're spread out in front of him. He can point his finger and count them off. One, two, three. Three of the same freckled nose and animated mouth, which rises in a slight smirk on the small ones even as they shut down for the night.
But Sam's here and not there. He put himself here, on this couch, and now there's that prevalent feeling of familial detachment that he's been experiencing since he first learned to ask, "Why?" Dean fit, Dean forced himself to fit into that role that Dad gave him, that role of Dad while Dad's away, he took it on like a second skin and now here Dean is, sitting upright between the closest things he'll have to sons, leaning over and planting soft kisses on each of their heads because while Dean can be a crude and amoral bastard, he's always been good at keeping things close and safe and well-tended. Like the Impala. Like Sam.
And now like these two. Like Alec and Ben, who are blanket-covered lumps under Dean's coarse fingers. Like Alec and Ben, who Sam could probably kill by blinking an eye.
"Sammy," Dean's voice is quiet and low and he's eyeing Sam like he doesn't trust him.
Sam swallows. "I-"
Dean snorts. "It's beddy-bye time, dude. Lay down. You're makin' me nervous."
Sam lies down. Dean follows suit and Sam blindly reaches back and flicks the lamp on the end table off, shrouding the room in darkness. He listens as the three lumps on the floor shift around, listens as a small voice mumbles something Sam can't understand and Dean chuckles for a reason Sam's unaware of and part of him is regretting this decision of putting the couch to use even if it is only five feet away.
He closes his eyes and sees glass break and men fall and children scatter. He tries to tell himself that he's not scary, he's badass like all good uncles should be, but its not sinking in. His body tenses and the couch squeaks when he moves and there's a spring jabbing into his hip and Sam Winchester is one scary motherfucker, even if he doesn't mean to be.
He squeezes his eyes closed and keeps them shut and tries for a few more hours before giving up, getting up, and slinking into the kitchen as quietly as he can, picking the dirty bowls up off the table and cleaning them in the sink. He dries them off with a dish towel and tries to ignore how his hand shakes, how his heart is a jackhammer in his chest, because Sam doesn't panic like this. There is no reason to panic like this. He's at Bobby's with the Impala and a belly full of chili.
He swallows and sucks in a breath, lets it out, falls into one of the kitchen chairs. He needs to stop freaking out. Freaking out never helps anything and Sam's not sure that there's anything to be helped, anyway. This thing…this thing's been inside of him since he was six months old. A drop of blood that killed his mother, destroyed his father, and wrecked his brother's future.
A tear escapes his eye. Sam lets it fall. He needs to settle down. He needs to think this thing through because it's not about what was. It's about what is. It's about what will be.
There's a spoon in the center of the table that he missed before and he reaches for it, holds it by its handle, holds it up to his face. A spoon.
I can't turn it on and off, Dean.
He'd said that after the first time it had ever happened, with the cabinet, with the gun, with the vision of a bullet going through his brother's head. He can't turn it on and off.
He stares at the spoon.
He can't, but he should. He should try. If he tries, maybe he'll find that he can. If he tries and succeeds, if he controls it…he won't have to worry anymore. He can use it when he needs it and forget about it the rest of the time.
He stares at the spoon.