A/N: Well, despite all my pleading, the boys still aren't mine. And apparently neither is Bobby or the Impala. Oh well, a girl can dream.
Day Five
Bobby's been trying to get Sam to talk for over four hours now. The most he gets is a grunt and once, about 100 miles back, he's sure there was a curse in the grunt somewhere. Sam's driving like a maniac and Bobby really wishes he hadn't handed over the keys so readily. On reflection, he should have known Sam would become a racing driver if he thought it would get him to Dean quicker. He didn't know he'd get the silent treatment too.
The name Jefferson Watts means nothing to Bobby but he saw the look on Sam's face when the old woman threw it out there. He thought the younger man was going to pass out but the moment came and went before anyone else noticed it. Bobby wants to know all about this obvious history between the Winchesters and Watts. No, he thinks, he needs to know. If they're going to get Dean back, which they will, Sam can't keep secrets from him. It could be the difference between life and death for any one of them. And no, Bobby doesn't think he's being overdramatic when he tells Sam that.
Sam glares out of the windscreen in reply at something only he can see and Bobby can feel the tension rolling off him in waves. He quells the impulse to slap some sense into Sam but only because he doesn't want to cause a crash. He tells Sam to slow the car down a bit, they don't want to draw any attention to themselves and doing the speed he is, Sam is a prime target for the traffic cops.
Sam just huffs and floors the gas pedal, the car burning up the miles through the night.
*****
Dean thinks he's opened his eyes but it's so dark in here now he could be wrong. The sliver of light from under the door is gone, taking with it his last link with reality. There's a buzzing in his ears and he's convinced it's the sound of the gun's hammer falling home. There was no bullet, just cruel, mocking laughter as the tears fell down his face and his body quivered with fear and regret. But in his muddled head, he almost wishes there had been. He thinks those last words spoken to him were significant, "When is an execution, not an execution?".
He remembers the cool steel of the barrel caressing the side of his cheek as the voice had whispered to him softly, before the butt of the gun came crashing down against his temple, sending him back to oblivion.
The buzzing isn't dying down though and Dean tries to raise himself up on his knees. He's pretty sure it's not just in his head now and he needs the noise to just shut the hell up before he loses what's left of his sanity. If he can track down that damned bumblebee he can just swat it to death and there'll be peace and quiet again. It's ironic that after all these days of despising the silence, now it's gone he can't take it.
The problem, Dean muses for a moment, is he has no strength left. He can't find it in himself to really care anymore and, as he collapses back down in an inelegant heap, at the back of his mind there's a niggling thought that tells him that's wrong.
*****
Sam knows he needs to share with Bobby, he really does, but the name written on the scrap of paper burning a hole in his pocket shocked him more than he was expecting. He's not stupid. He knew there would be something or someone behind all of this they knew, but Jefferson Watts? He thought the man was dead, he should be dead. Dean killed him long ago. Sam saw it with his own two eyes, so what the hell is he doing back here?
The countryside is rolling past them in the Impala and Sam can hear Bobby's gentle breaths. He feels somehow resentful that the older hunter is able to sleep. He knows it's an illogical emotion. He can't begrudge Bobby a little snooze and he's sure it's as restless as his own would be if he allowed himself the luxury of stepping back for a few minutes. After all, Bobby didn't have to come at all, he could easily have helped from a distance, might have been better overall. All his research books and papers are back at the yard. But Sam's glad he's here.
His eyes are starting to sting from driving for so long and he knows he's going to have to pull over soon. He's no good to his brother in pieces and if he keeps going much longer the Impala is likely to end up in ditch. The only way to move forward is to get Bobby to drive for a little while. But that involves waking him and Sam doesn't want the conversation he knows is going to have to take place as soon as Bobby is conscious. He hates keeping Bobby in the dark but he can hardly bring himself to think about Jefferson Watts, let alone discuss him and the events of nine years ago.
*****
The buzzing is getting louder now, and more persistent. Dean's tried to get up, to find it, but he can't. The effect of days of starvation are showing. The noise is quite literally doing his head in. There are wet tracks down his face again and he doesn't know why. He doesn't know anything any more. The noise has heightened his senses and along with the constant white noise he can feel every spec of grit under his hands, every ridge in the wall his head is lying against, every tiny breeze traversing his prison.
He wants Sam. He doesn't understand why he hasn't come yet. He thought Sam was here earlier but then why is he still here? The noise stops him thinking straight, he can't see beyond the end of his nose, which he thinks might be broken, and his brain can't hold a thought for more than ten seconds.
He thinks if he covers his ears, he might gain some relief but it doesn't help. All it achieves is dulling the buzzing to an even more annoying level. It's irrational but he thinks if he bangs his head against the floor he'll be able to knock the bee out of his ear. He tries it once, twice, three times, increasing what little strength he has each time. All it does is give him a headache.
He tries humming really, really loudly and when that doesn't help either, he cries. Not because he's given up, but because he doesn't know what else to do.
*****
Bobby slowly wakens from his sleep, feeling guilty for drifting off in the first place. He casts a glance at Sam, who is ignoring the fact Bobby's back with him. Bobby wants to laugh. Does Sam really think he's an idiot? He knows Sam knows he's awake. Bobby knows he doesn't want to talk but he's going to pull the 'more experience than you'll ever have' card soon if he has to.
He can play this game too, he thinks as he stretches, pretending to work out sleep embedded kinks in his shoulders and arms. He turns to Sam and studies him properly for the first time since they headed out to the warehouse. He's aware that the boy looks drained, emotionally and physically. He doesn't think Sam's slept more than four hours since this whole thing started. His hair is hanging limply over his collar and into his eyes and the shadows under his eyes are pushing his face into his early fifties.
He wonders how to start the conversation, the one Sam is desperate to avoid. He mulls it over in his head, trying out several angles. Eventually he decides to get straight to the point. Sam's brother is in great danger and now's not the time to start keeping secrets. He demands, gently, that Sam tell him who has his brother.
But the warehouse is in view now and Sam's not stopping for anything.
tbc