Disclaimer: I do not own the Winchesters, or their property, or anything you recognise. More's the pity.
Day Eleven
Sam's done things he's not proud of. He's done things he's not happy about. He's done things he's regretted instantly. And he's done things he knew would get him in trouble one day. Looks like that day's finally caught up with him.
He sits at Bobby's kitchen table supping down the cold beer the older man had waiting for him, savouring the luxury of stretching his legs out full after a night time of driving. Bobby's leaning against a kitchen cabinet, eyeing him closely and Sam knows any minute now he's going to ask him what really went down at that house. Hell, it made the news and forced them to up sticks to leave town before any of them were really ready for it. The man deserves an explanation.
But Sam doesn't know where to start. He casts a glance towards the door leading to the stairs, to where he lay his brother down to sleep after the trip, promising he'd be right downstairs if he needed him.
Staring at the door can only delay the inevitable though. Sam knows that. And he knows when Bobby shifts from foot to foot that his time is running out.
He runs a hand over his face, brushing away the cobwebs of fatigue, and looks at Bobby with tired eyes. Now he's set his mind to it, he wants to get this over with. It's been a crushing weight on his shoulders and he's wanted to share the burden with someone for days. But he's not used to sharing with anyone other than his brother. Who is having enough trouble dealing with his own problems.
He realises it's silly. Bobby's seen him at pretty much every stage of his life, and in every state imaginable. He's the one person outside of his family he would trust with his life. Bobby's picked up the pieces of more than one Winchester over the years. He's fought half their battles with them and the rest, well, he's been there in the background, at the end of a phone.
He takes a last swig from his beer and sets it on the table, a little too heavily, a little too noisily and tries to clear his head enough to talk to Bobby.
*****
Bobby sees the signs, knows any minute now Sam is going to unburden himself and lay himself open. He knows the trust that takes and he's heartened by it. It makes him feel good to know the Winchester boys are comfortable and secure in his home.
But he can see that Sam is struggling with something. He can almost see the cogs whirring in the younger hunter's head. He grabs another two beers out of the fridge and puts one in front of Sam and pops the other open himself pulling out the chair opposite and settling himself down.
He waits for Sam to open his beer, waits for him to take a long draught of the cold liquid, waits for him to raise his head and look Bobby in the eye. It takes longer than he'd anticipated but he's prepared to wait this one out. His only concern is that Sam manages to get through this before Dean wakes. Because once Dean is awake he knows Sam is going to clam up and they'll have lost this opportunity.
When Sam finally meets Bobby's eyes, the older man feels a chill run through him and suddenly he's not so sure he wants to know what Sam has to tell him. He's always known Sam is just as capable of violence as his brother but to see it reflected in his face is a real eye opener for him. He knows he has to put the image of little Sammy away, the young boy who arrived on his doorstep clutching his brother's hand and a worn teddy bear all those years ago.
The Sam Winchester sitting in front of him, nursing a cold bottle, is a hardened hunter, a man who's devotion to his brother is next to none and who would willing give his own life if it meant saving Dean. He's grown in stature and strength and confidence. Bobby suddenly wonders if he knows him at all any more.
Sam takes a deep breath and Bobby settles in for the duration.
*****
Sam knows Bobby is listening and he knows what he's going to tell him will be received in silence, in confidence and there will be no judgement at the end of it. It should help him but it doesn't. Because deep down Sam still hasn't really come to terms with what he did himself. He hasn't given himself the time to think about it. He can kid himself all he wants that it's because he's been too busy caring for Dean, but the truth of the matter is he doesn't want to think about it.
He wonders how to tell Bobby how he rummaged through the Impala, taking every gun and knife he could carry, how he had iron bullets, silver bullets, regular bullets, steel blades, wooden stakes, iron stakes, holy water, rounds of salt, everything. Because other than Jefferson Watts, he didn't know who he was going to come across. And all he knew about Watts was Dean had killed him nine years ago. He didn't know if he was about to come up against a ghost, or a warlock, or a zombie or a werewolf or what.
He wants Bobby to understand how shocked he was to be confronted by three humans. Humans, Bobby. Not monsters in the literal sense of the word, but monsters nonetheless. Men who had taken his brother, held him captive for six days and tortured the hell out of him. He wants Bobby to understand that at the time, he didn't even know if Dean was still alive.
Sam twirls the bottle around his fingers as he recounts the moment he kicked the door down. He remembers how surprised he was to feel the wood give so easily beneath his booted foot and how he cringed at the noise it made. How he knew then his element of surprise had gone.
He looks up at Bobby, who nods his head understandingly. Sam's reassured. Of course Bobby would understand. He doesn't know too much about the man's history before they met but he wouldn't be surprised if Bobby's been there himself. He takes another pull at the bottle and hopes Dean, at least, is settled right now.
*****
Bobby realises his fists are clenched beneath the table as he listens to Sam. He wishes he'd gone with the younger hunter as he slowly relaxes his fingers. He hears every inflection and hesitation in Sam's speech and it's as much as he can do not to jump out of his chair and give the boy a hug.
He listens as Sam falters as he describes the kitchen, as he relates how he came across three men standing around the farmhouse table, drinking whisky and coffee. Three men and Jefferson Watts. Bobby doesn't flinch as Sam tells him how he drew his knife and gun simultaneously. He lets the younger man detail how the sound of laughter inflamed him to the point he didn't even register they were human until it was too late and how, if he was honest with himself, it didn't actually matter any more.
Bobby can picture the scene. He can see Sam slash his knife through the air, slicing through a neck, turning away and firing his gun in one smooth, almost graceful move. He can hear the screams Sam drew from the men dying by his hand. He tries not to think about the fear fuelled adrenaline coursing through Sam at that point.
Bobby has seen Sam's combat skills and he knows the third man wouldn't have stood a chance. When Sam describes how he broke the man's neck, Bobby just nods and reaches out to take the empty beer bottle from his hands. He silently replaces it with a third beer, hoping he's doing the right thing. This is new territory for both of them but it feels right and that's all they've got to go on here.
But now Sam seems to have stalled and Bobby thinks he knows why. Nothing's been said about Jefferson Watts and he's the only one Bobby already knows something about. The news reporter had said one victim had been pinned to the floor with an iron stake. He's willing to bet that man was Watts and Sam's choice of weapon leaves only one choice of opponent.
Jefferson Watts was one of the undead, a zombie.
*****
Sam takes his beer gratefully. He's tired and ever so slightly light headed and he's been driving nearly all night. He can see the sun trying to show it's head over the salvage yard and he wonders how long Dean will sleep. He doesn't want him waking alone, he'll be disorientated and scared and who knows what that could do to him. Sam promised he'd be there when he woke and he's not going to break that promise.
He knows he's delaying, stalling for time to get his thoughts back in order. After telling Bobby how he killed Watts' three cohorts he feels emotionally drained. At the time, he reiterates, they weren't men to him. They were worse than the creatures they're used to fighting. And he believes if he keeps telling himself that, he'll get through this okay.
But Bobby can only be put off for so long and Jefferson Watts had to be dealt with once and for all. Bobby understands that, doesn't he?
Sam has to make him understand that when he looked up from the carnage on the floor, when he finally came face to face with his brother's tormentor, he felt nothing. He thought he would feel hatred, rage, disgust, even pity maybe. But no, he felt nothing. A complete void of emotion.
Sam explains how Watts cowered behind a dresser, trying to escape Sam's wrath. It made Sam laugh inside to see such a monster afraid of him. Talk about turning tables. But then Sam wasn't laughing on the outside. On the outside he was the professional hunter his father always wanted him to be, ingrained in him even when he fought against it body and soul. Turns out he's more of a natural hunter than even he realised.
He recalls the fight Jefferson Watts put up. The last ditch attempt of a condemned man, although Sam has to hold back a snort of derision. Watts wasn't a man. Sam doesn't think he ever really was, not even when he was human.
Watts wasn't a skilled fighter, Sam tells Bobby. But he was desperate and he knew it was all over. He didn't try to beg for survival, Sam wouldn't have given it anyway, but he threw his fists around, kicked out with no co-ordination. Sam felt a foot glance off his shin but all it managed to do was drive him on even more.
He wonders if Bobby understands how he could sucker punch Watts, drive him to the floor with no mercy, no emotion at all. He wonders if Bobby thinks less of him as he recounts how he hefted the iron stake above his head, above the fallen man's chest, and let it drop. Bobby needs to understand the force behind the stake wasn't just Sam looking to save his brother. It was fuelled by the fear he was too late, the desire to find Dean, bring him home.
*****
Bobby understands. He understands all too well. He understands that Sam didn't set out to commit murder, probably still doesn't see it that way. And if he's honest with himself, Bobby doesn't see it like that either. Sam was doing what he had to and he'll have to come to terms with that one day. Because Bobby thinks it'll hit home one day, probably when he's least expecting it. He'll realise he's killed three men when he's more than capable of taking them out without resorting to lethal methods.
The end justified the means. Sam doesn't have to defend himself to anyone. Bobby would have done the same thing.
Looking across at Sam, Bobby realises how exhausted the younger man is. He hadn't realised how the time had flown by. Sam needs to sleep if he's going to be any good to his brother and Bobby hopes he'll be able to rest now he's been able to unburden himself.
With a gentle hand on the younger hunter's shoulder, he ushers him out of the kitchen and points him in the direction of the stairs. Sam takes the hint and smiles sombrely at Bobby. As he mounts the stairs, he turns back and Bobby wonders what he's missed. But Sam just looks him straight in the eye.
"Thank you, Bobby," he says. "For everything."
*****