Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the fabulous beta job, and thank Gredelina1 and SandraENgstrom2 for being the best cheerleader team any one ever had.

Chapter Twenty

Dean was sitting beside Sam's bed alone. Bobby and Castiel were in the hospital somewhere, Bobby had arrived in the Impala not long after Castiel had gotten them there, but they'd agreed that Dean should be left alone with his brother for the time being. He was glad of it. They didn't need an audience.

Sam was unconscious still. He'd not woken when Castiel had bounced them to the hospital or when the nurse had stitched up the cut on his temple. He'd been out when the ER doctor examined him. He'd missed the assertions that he was lucky as there was no fracture.

Lucky, Dean realized, was all relative. If they knew the truth of what Sam and Dean had lost, they wouldn't be throwing around words like lucky.

Dean almost wished he was unconscious, too. That would be better than to feel. The loss of his father felt like a lead weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe properly. It seemed impossible that it had happened. Only hours ago, they'd all been together, working to save the world from Croatoan, now their father was gone. Again.

He swiped away a rogue tear that made it through his control.

He could feel no gratitude for his own survival with what had been lost. He didn't even know for sure how it had happened. The moment the first bomb went, he'd known that was it, he was done for, but then he'd blinked and found himself outside the building with smoke rolling over him, listening to Sam screaming his name. Had he died and that was the place he'd been brought back to or had someone gotten him out? He supposed it didn't really matter. He was alive. John was dead. How was he supposed to live with that?

There was a low groan from the narrow bed and Dean's attention snapped to Sam. He was waking up. His eyes rolled and opened and roved.

"Sammy," Dean said, standing and leaning over the bed slightly.

"Dean?"

"Yeah. I'm here."

Sam blinked up at him and smiled slightly. "Hey." He looked past Dean's shoulder. "Where's Dad?" There was no fear in his face or voice. He sounded like Sam, albeit tired. He didn't remember.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment.

"What's wrong, Dean?" Sam asked, concerned. He eased himself upright and turned slightly to face him.

Dean braced himself and asked, "What's the last thing you remember?"

Sam considered. "We were at the lab. Uh… There were a couple demons I was dealing with when… Meg," he growled. "That bitch Meg was there." He brought a hand up to his temple. "She cracked me."

Dean nodded. That was pretty much what he surmised happened. "What else?"

Sam frowned and considered, then the little color he'd regained since he'd been in the hospital drained from his face. "No. That wasn't real. That was a concussion dream or something." He looked past Dean at the door, as if expecting his father to come though it any moment.

"Not a dream," Dean said quietly. "It happened."

Sam shook his head. "No. It can't have." He sounded angry, as if he didn't understand why Dean was saying these things to him.

"Yes," Dean said relentlessly, knowing Sam needed to hear it laid bare for him to believe. "Meg had the detonator and a knife to Dad's throat. Dad told me to run. I couldn't. I tried to help, pulled the knife, but…" he shook his head, "she set them off."

"How did you get out?" Dean wouldn't have been surprised to hear accusation in Sam's voice, but there was none. His tone was neutral.

"I don't know," Dean admitted. He considered and decided not to mention his theory that he might actually have died. "Just found myself outside. I think maybe the angels…"

"They could have saved Dad, too," Sam said hopefully.

Dean shook his head. "Cas says no. Dad doesn't have the sigils like we do. He could sense him before. After the bombs, he couldn't sense him anymore. He had to have died."

For a moment, the briefest moment, Dean saw Sam's heartbreak in his face. And then it was gone. He wiped away the tears on his face, drew a breath, and the mask appeared, hiding any emotion he was feeling. This was the man Dean had met after long years apart—the man who hid everything from everyone. He had been made that by John's deal. Dean felt sick at the idea that it could happen all over again, that he could lose his brother.

"Okay," Sam said in a dead voice. He ripped the IV out of his hand and tossed it aside then swung his legs around to the side of the bed and stood.

"Sam," Dean said, "you shouldn't…" He trailed off as Sam's expressionless eyes fell on him.

"I'm leaving," Sam said. "You coming?"

It shouldn't have been such a relief to Dean that he asked the question, but it was. He hadn't been sure Sam wouldn't walk out of his life again after what had happened. With the mask in place, it was impossible to tell how much blame Sam would set at Dean's feet for what had happened. It wasn't like there was none to be had. He'd been the one with the knife. He'd been the one who hadn't managed to kill Meg. He hadn't called Castiel to help them. He had his part in his father's death. He was the one who had lived.

"I'm coming," he said.

Sam nodded. "Good."

They passed Bobby and Castiel in the waiting room, and though Bobby rose to meet them, Sam's name on his lips and relief on his face, Sam walked straight past him without a word and out of the hospital door. Dean hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged helplessly at his friends and followed Sam. Bobby could be reassured with a phone call, Castiel a prayer; if Sam got away from Dean this time, he might not come back again.

Sam stood on the passenger side of the Impala, leaning slightly on the door for support. Dean took the keys from his pocket and opened up.

"Home?" he asked when they were both seated.

Sam shook his head. "Anywhere but there. Just get me away from this damned city."

Dean turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled. The radio came to life and Sam flicked it off without a word.

They had barely pulled out of the lot before Dean's phone started ringing. He pulled it from his pocket, one hand on the wheel, and checked the caller ID. It was Bobby. Sam snatched it out of his hand and snapped open the back and pulled out the battery. He threw it down onto the seat between them then did the same with his own.

"Sam," Dean said sadly.

Sam didn't even look at him.

Sam wasn't oblivious. He could see Dean needed to talk, and he wished he could help, but he felt like if he opened his mouth to speak, all that would come out would be a howl. His father was dead and that pain made him feel like he was being burned at the stake.

He had failed.

His job had been to take out the demons, and he'd been knocked out by one. It went back further, too. He'd had Meg in his grip when he'd escaped Lucifer, he could have killed her, but he'd failed, let her go, freeing her to come back and destroy their lives once again. Because of him, his father was dead, again. How many times could he kill the people he loved?

He wished it had been him. He wished he had been the one in that building when it went down. More than that he wished he didn't have the return ticket courtesy of the apocalypse. If he could just die… Back further was Miner's Delight. If he'd died there, all the crap that followed would have been avoided.

But then there was Dean… That was a huge part of his agony—the fact he felt relief tempered with his grief. Sam knew how to live without his father now; he'd managed it for years. He couldn't live without his brother. When'd he tried, he'd become less than human. Even before Ruby had found him again, before the blood, Sam had been a wreck of a man. He needed his brother in a way he'd never needed anyone or anything before. But he couldn't tell Dean that. Even if he knew the words, he couldn't say them. What kind of person did that make him?

Instead of telling his brother how glad he was that he was okay, how much he cared, he said, "Pull over," in a toneless voice as they passed a liquor store.

Dean obeyed and Sam made to open the door.

"Uh, Sam," Dean said.

Sam looked at him. "Yeah?"

"Your shirt."

Sam looked down and saw the shirt he'd woken up in the hospital in was the same shirt he'd been wearing in the lab when he'd been cracked over the head. It was stained with his own blood. He reached into the back and pulled his jacket from the seat. He pulled it on and zipped it closed then made for the store.

It was a small place, specializing more in rare brands than the stuff Ellen stocked, but there was a small stock of Jack Daniels, Crown Royal and Johnny Walker at the back. Sam took two bottles of Jack Daniels to the counter and set them down then waited impatiently while the clerk loaded them into a paper sack and ran his card. When he was done, Sam turned away and left the store, not responding to the clerk's farewell.

Dean eyed the clinking sack when Sam set it down in the footwell but he didn't comment, for which Sam was grateful. He settled in his seat and nodded when Dean asked, "Motel?"

That was what Sam needed. Somewhere quiet they could just be alone to drink their sorrows down. Dean needed that, too, whether he knew it or not. Sam wasn't the only one who had lost his father. They were both suffering.

Dean drove them to a motel just outside the city and checked them in while Sam went to get their duffels. He froze by the open trunk. There were three. His hand drifted to the one in the middle, older than the other two, faded and full. His fingers traced the coarse thread of the bag and he felt a lump form in his throat.

"Dad…"

He swallowed hard and coughed then picked up his and Dean's bags before slamming the trunk closed again. The third duffel would go back in the closet, just in case there was another miracle one day and it was needed.

By the time Dean came out, Sam had pushed down his sadness again and was ready to face his brother.

They let themselves into their room and Sam quickly shrugged off his jacket and bloody shirt. He went into the bathroom and washed the blood from his skin where it had soaked through. When he got back into the bedroom, he picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels and set it on the table.

"You have a head injury, Sam," Dean said.

"I know," Sam said, unscrewing the cap and raising it to his lips. "Have a drink, Dean."

Looking resigned, Dean took a mug from the small kitchenette and held it out to Sam who poured him a generous measure and then tapped the neck of the bottle against Dean's mug. He raised it in front of him, and said, "To Dad."

Dean's eyes were wet as he nodded and said, "Dad," quietly.

It had been a week, and other than Dean's daily prayers to Castiel to let him know they were okay, no one at The Roadhouse had seen or heard from Sam or Dean.

Ellen wished they were back. She was scared for them. They had just lost their father again, and they needed her. But they weren't there and their phones were switched off and untraceable. If she could just talk to them, to Dean, she knew she would be able to persuade him to tell her where they were. Then she could go there, hold them, love them, make them see it would be okay eventually.

Her worry for them only morphed into something else—panic for the other people she loved—when the sirens started.

The bar hadn't been closed long and she was lying awake in bed thinking of her boys and wishing they were there when the warble ripped through the air. At first, she didn't recognize it for what it was; her immediate thought was of Lucifer. Then reason caught up with her and she threw herself from her bed, shouting for Jo and Ash.

Jo was on her way out of her own room and they met in the hall. "Basement!" Ellen ordered, crossing the hall and throwing open Ash's bedroom door. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking bleary eyed and confused—still mostly drunk.

Ellen rushed across the room and yanked him upright, shouting to be heard above the sirens. "Tornado!"

Ash blanched. Ellen dragged him out of the room and through the door that led to their basement. When she felt him get his feet under him, she released him and hurried down the stairs, her hand gripping the rail.

Jo had the flashlight in her hand, lighting the floor for Ellen and Ash to get over to her. Ellen sat beside her and pulled Ash down on her other side. In the dim light, Ellen could see they were both wide-eyed and scared. She didn't feel that brave herself.

The sirens seemed muffled belowground, but when the winds started they heard them as if they were standing in the open air. Ellen's ears popped as the pressure changed and she felt Jo stiffen beside her. She wrapped an arm around her shoulders and wound her other around Ash. She felt them shaking against her, and she realized she was shaking, too.

This was hardly their first tornado, but she didn't think there had ever been one so close before. It was like a freight train was passing overhead. Her heart clenched as she realized the sound was probably the end of The Roadhouse. The loss of the bar itself didn't worry her as much as the ruin of the building. They were insured, but the memories of the place couldn't be replaced. This was where she and Bill had set up their business. This was where Jo had been brought home the day after she was born, where she and Sam had played as children. This was the place they all came back to at the end of the hunts. This was home.

The sound grew impossibly louder and Ellen cringed into the wall, scared for her life. Then, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. The roar died away and the feeling that the air was forcing its way into Ellen's head disappeared. She lifted her head slowly and looked from Jo to Ash.

"You okay?" Her voice sounded loud in the sudden quiet.

"Yeah," Jo said, peering up at her. "Ash?"

Ash was rubbing at his ears frantically, but he looked up and nodded at Jo's question.

Ellen removed her arms from their shoulders and pushed herself to her feet slowly, feeling a little shaky still. She walked to the stairs and hesitated as she looked up. The door was intact, but that didn't guarantee the rest of the building was.

"Okay," she said bracingly. "Let's go see the damage."

Dean slapped Sam awake in the morning. It was early, and the sky was just lightening beyond the windows. Sam was surprised Dean was disturbing him, as he'd been leaving him to sleep pretty much continuously when he wasn't drinking.

He rolled over and looked up blearily. "What?"

In answer, Dean turned back to the TV and raised the volume. The smooth voice of a news anchor was speaking. "Though no official figures have been released for casualties, the hospitals in the area have called in all off-shift staff to deal with the injured. Damage to property is vast and many people have found themselves homeless this morning. A fund has been set up by the AmeriCares foundation. If you're able to donate, the details are on screen. If you're just joining us, this is the story of the devastating tornado that hit Southeast Nebraska in the early hours…"

"Lincoln?" Sam breathed.

Dean nodded, his eyes haunted. "I tried calling, but…"

Sam was out of bed and shoving his feet into his boots before Dean finished speaking. Even as he made for the door, he was shoving the battery back into his phone and dialing Ellen's number. A recorded message informed him the number was unavailable. He got to the car and threw himself in behind the wheel, pressing down on the horn to hurry Dean as he came out of the room, their duffels over his shoulder. He threw them into the back seat and then climbed in beside Sam. Sam gunned the engine and drove out of the lot and onto the road.

"Keep calling," he instructed Dean. "Don't stop till they answer."

"On it," Dean said tersely.

When they reached the interstate, Sam slammed his foot down on the accelerator and weaved in and out of the traffic. His heart was pounding hard in his chest. Not Ellen. Not Jo. He couldn't lose them, too.

Suddenly, Dean sat forward in his seat and slapped the dashboard. "Ash? Thank God, man. Are you okay?"

Sam swerved slightly as he snatched the phone from Dean and brought it to his ear. "Ash? Talk!"

It was like listening to a badly tuned radio. "Ellen and Jo… Bar… damage… help… all of them…"

"Dammit," Sam cursed. "I can't hear you, Ash. Are Ellen and Jo okay?"

The only response was the beep of a disconnected call. Sam threw the phone back to Dean and slapped his hand against the steering wheel. Ash was alive, that was great, a relief, but there was no news of Ellen and Jo. Sam was terrified. He thought he would do anything, give just about anything to make sure they were okay.

They had to be okay.

They closer they got to The Roadhouse, the worst the damage was. Dean had seen tornado damage before, the foundations that were all that was left of what had been sprawling houses; the ruined crops and barns, ruined livelihoods; the wrecked cars on the roads where they had been dropped by the tornado after being ripped into the air; the debris covering the ground that had once been roofs and walls; shell-shocked people, kids, standing in the streets. It was all there and more. It was devastating.

Sam didn't seem to notice any of this. His eyes were on the road, weaving through the barriers and debris nature had left to slow their journey, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. They'd continued calling Ash, Ellen, and Jo's numbers, but there was no answer, and when they got closer to Lincoln, their signal died, too. Dean was scared for his family.

The Roadhouse was set in farmland a few miles out of the city lines, and as they drew closer, Dean's eyes roved the landscape for a sign of the building, though it was usually blocked from view until you were close.

They were within half a mile when Sam suddenly reached out a shaky hand and touched Dean's arm. "Do you see?" he asked in a quavering voice.

"I see," Dean said, his heart beating wildly.

The Roadhouse was there. It was impossible to tell the damage from this distance, but the main structure of the building was intact. It gave him hope that the people who occupied it were there, too. If the tornado had come at night, they'd have all been home.

Sam increased their speed, moving recklessly around barriers and screeching to a halt a hundred yards from the building. He threw open his door and ran at The Roadhouse, Dean on his heels a moment later. He'd seen it, too. Three figures standing by the door.

Sam didn't even slow as he reached Ellen. He yanked her into his arms and lifted her bodily into the air. When Dean reached them, Jo threw herself at him and he caught her, feeling her comforting weight in his arms.

"You're okay," Sam was saying. "You're okay."

"We're all okay," Ellen said tearfully. "We're fine, honey."

Dean stepped back as Sam finally released Ellen and grabbed Jo into his arms instead. His hand smoothed her hair and she buried her face against his chest.

"Hey, man," Ash said, sounding weary.

Dean clapped him gently on the back. "Good to see you, Ash."

Sam and Jo parted and Dean turned to Ellen. "Anyone hurt?"

She shook her head. "Not a scratch."

"And the bar?" He eyed the building speculatively.

"Come and see."

They followed Ellen into the bar, and Dean stopped dead, making Ash walk into him. It was perfect. Untouched. The bottles behind the bar were in neat rows. The glasses sat polished on their shelves. The stools, tables and chairs looked untouched. There wasn't a thing out of place.

"You cleaned up, right?" Dean said.

Ellen shook her head. "Not a glass broken."

"How?" he asked.

Ellen shrugged. "I have no idea."

Someone cleared his throat by the door to the back. Dean looked and saw Gabriel standing there, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes amused. "Feeling a little lost there, boys? Let me explain…"

So… The apocalypse just got apocalyptic. Being UK born and bred, the closest I've come to a tornado is a bunch of leaves swirling in a cool funnel one time. I watched YouTube videos though and read accounts, so I'm hoping I did a halfway decent job of writing that scene. Let me know.

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx