Chapter Eight

Bobby had found them a job, which he explained over breakfast. Total four victims, one most recent, with pictures on the newspaper article from 1987 to the current year, showing their bloodied corpses discovered hanging from the exact same tree (and eerily, with the exact same wounds) two miles west of a borough named Bridgeville, located in Pennsylvania. John suggested that it could just as well be a crazy, psychopathic serial killer on the run with a knack for that tree. Dean answered that it could just as well be not with a shit-eating grin in response to his father's annoyed glare. It made Sam smile a little at their familial antics, ducking his head shyly to hide it, like it was supposed to be some kind of a secret. He wished he could just smile easily and openly, wished he could have a family like theirs, but he knew better to believe something like this could ever belong to him. He wouldn't deserve it. And that thought was enough to make the smile fade away from his lips.

"Alright, so I guess we're heading to Bridgeville in a few minutes," John announced, crumpling the wrapper of his finished burger in his hands. "Pack your crap, everyone. Make sure you don't leave anything behind," he ordered as he stood up, groaning as his knees creaked.

"Yes sir," Dean answered in a respectful, firm tone, shifting from a sportive, playful son to a stoic soldier. Sam found the sudden change a little unsettling as well as fascinating.

Bobby grunted in response and stood up with his hands on his knees. Sam followed, quietly rising to his feet with the support of the table. He ignored the stings and stabs of pain that shoot through his entire body at the movement, tried not to scrunch his face up or cry out by biting his lip. God, his flesh ached with bruises and cuts, and it wasn't even disturbing anymore that he couldn't remember his life without it. He got used to it such a long time ago, perhaps too soon, and it became something familiar and something to expect every day and even something normal to him. Some days, it was almost unimaginable to be painless.

Sam moved over to his coffee-soaked bag, took a hold of it and carried it over to the bed he slept in last night. He sat until everyone was done and ready to go, and he walked out of there with all those different people, suddenly realizing that things were changing, but not yet trusting enough to believe for the better.

...

Sam had sat in a car before with wounds on his back and thighs, had felt them all burn with each bounce of the tires from the bumps on the road. The pain never truly grew smaller and easier to bear, even after years and years. But he became better at hiding how much it hurt, became better at pushing down the sounds rising inside him and the tugs on his features in reaction to the agony and the urge to escape and risk seeming abnormal.

He was prepared for another day of the same torture, rigid, aching body trying to relax into the solid seats. Rick always got pissed at him for being a drama queen when he tried to move forward and away from pressing his blue-and-purple back into the seat, so it was almost a second-nature now to try to keep the pain of his injuries a secret, because he knew that he could only expect belittling and annoyance for his display.

But Dean looked at him from the passenger seat, and Sam couldn't mold his body into the seat properly this time without nearly breaking into tears and his heart skipped because Dean saw him being weak, and he was nice to him and he didn't want that to end just because he couldn't toughen up and deal with it. He tried to school his facial muscles back into stoicism and strength, but his eyes were already burning wet and there was a stone in his throat that he couldn't swallow hard enough to push away.

Then Dean left the car, disappeared around it (Sam didn't look back) and came back after a moment, standing outside as he knocked on his window, and Sam had no idea what was going to happen, tried not to think about it and obsess over the fear that he made him mad as he tentatively unlocked the door, his hands shaking a little. But all Dean did was pull the door open and give him stolen motel pillows full of soft feathers, grinning as he explained that it wasn't everyday they got such heavenly stuff so he snatched a few on the way, plus they come in handy when their injuries from hunts make it hard for them to get comfy in the car.

Dean slid the pillows behind him, smiled this tiny smile that was soft and slightly sad and maybe even a little fond as he ruffled his hair. Sam leaned back and felt the pain on his back ease, and something in his heart too.

...

The drive to Bridgeville, Pennsylvania took almost six hours. Dean had looked in the rearview mirror two hours ago to see Sam asleep, and figured must be still tired. He smiled at Sam's drooling chin and hanging jaw, and the peace in his closed eyes and cheeks, hoping the kid was having dreams sweeter than reality. God knows he deserved it.

The sudden change had to be unsettling on top of everything from his past, but he was in better hands than he was before, and Dean didn't regret doing what he did. It did make him wonder if it caused Sam to harbor any resentment towards him for getting Rick arrested, but it was far better than leaving him with that monster.

His father pulled the Impala into the empty parking lot of a motel, Bobby's truck driving into a spot beside them as well. Dean watched John leave the car, groaning at the pull unfolding himself out probably had on his bullet wound, and walk towards the reception office, Bobby falling into step along with him. He glanced back at Sam in the backseat, deciding to let him rest for a few more minutes until they get a room.

When they reached their building, Dean was slightly dreadful of the state of the room, as he could see his dad was. He wondered if Sam felt the same too every time he had to move to a new motel, although Dean assumed that he was the kind of person who took what he could get and never complained. He was probably never given a choice to complain, so he learned never to.

"Sam?" Dean called out softly, reaching out a hand to touch his narrow shoulder. God, the kid was scarily thin. "Sam?"

Sam stirred, brows tightening with effort to wake up. His eyes blinked open against the evening light streaming in from the windshield, onto his face, and Dean patiently stared at him and waited.

"Bri'gev'lle?" Sam slurred, voice thick with sleep and still struggling to focus on reality as he rubbed his slit eyes.

Dean chuckled and nodded. "Yep. Bridgeville."

Sam nodded and sobered after a few more seconds, and then he sort of just stared at the top of the car, like his hope was as blank as it. Dean said nothing about it, knowing they were still strangers enough to not ask, so he just patted his shoulder and slid out of the car.

Sam was soon right behind him, bag slung over his shoulder as they walked towards the motel building, John and Bobby alongside them.

"So it's us grown-ups and you kids," Bobby said, handing the keys to Dean for a room.

"I'm twenty-one," Dean replied, slightly affronted. "Why don't you and Sam share a room instead? He's known you for longer." He glanced at Sam for some semblance of agreement, but only caught him staring down at his feet silently.

"Yeah," Bobby said, strangely awkward all of a sudden as he shifted on his feet. "But, uh, ya know? Thought he could use somebody closer ta' his age, find a friend in ya and all. What do ya think, Sam?"

Dean glanced at him expectantly for an answer. Sam stayed silent and still, though, looking like he wanted nothing more than to hide behind his hair and shoulders and his fiddling hands were fascinating him to no end. Dean felt guilty for having him put on the spot like that.

Sam swallowed, bobbing his head slightly.

"Alright then," Bobby said, smiling. "Let's go see our rooms."

...

"Sorry about, uh, putting you on the spot like that," Dean said as he went through his bag for a set of clothes. "I mean, that was kinda Bobby's fault. But I feel like I had a part in it or something." He turned around once he found boxers and a pair of a casual T-shirts and sweats for his pajama. "It's not too late, you know? If you want to be with Bobby, you can let me know and I'll-"

Dean cut off, realizing that Sam was actually on the verge of tears, jaw set in restraint and watery gaze fixated on his hands atop his lap. "...talk to him."

He dropped his clothes on his bed and stepped forward towards him, standing awkwardly over him for a few seconds before he lowered down and perched uncertainly on the edge of his bed, suddenly finding himself unable to look at Sam's face. "Uh..." He paused, swallowing, and then sighed. "Look, you... you don't have to be afraid of me. I mean, I'm not... I won't hurt you. But yeah, I, uh... I'll talk to Bobby about letting you in with him."

Sam chuckled sadly and shook his head, sniffing a little. "Don't bother," he said quietly. "He won't say yes."

Dean's brow furrowed, confused, and he turned his head to face him.

Sam bit his lip, his face twisting as he exhaled. "He doesn't like me. He was the only one who's ever liked me."

Dean shook his head at him, his mind feeling blocked and senseless. "Why would you think that?"

Sam swiped a hand at his nose, then returned it back under his gaze. "The way he was talking about me. Like... like he just didn't want me with him."

"Sam, I can safely say that that's bullshit," Dean declared. "Before we met, he was telling us about you. And it was pretty obvious that he thought you were a good kid."

"That was before he found out how pathetic and weak I was," Sam whispered, his voice breaking.

It took quarter of a moment for Dean to understand. "You're not weak or pathetic," Dean told him. "There wasn't much you could have done to stop him from hurting you."

Sam stayed silent, and there's a look on his bowed face, that Dean could see even from an angle that showed so little, with something close to regret, like he thought he had said too much of things he shouldn't have had. "Never mind," he mumbled. "M'sorry."

"It's okay," Dean answered.

"It won't happen again. I should stop being so whiny," he kept on talking, and Dean could hear a story in the fear of his trembling voice.

"It's okay," Dean repeated softly, his slightly pinched gaze set on him.

Sam's mouth clamped shut. Dean stayed there, waiting for him to say something else. But after a while, he understood that this was the end of their conversation, so he reached out a hand to pat his shoulder before his exit, only to have Sam flinching back into the headboard even more.

Dean sighed, feeling a clench of sorrow for the kid with sad eyes and shy, guarded smiles on split lips and bruises on his face. He slowly withdrew his hand away and stood up on his feet, leaning over to pick his clothes up from his bed.

He remained there for a few seconds, just wondering what to say that could make something better in the kid's world, even though he'd never know if it worked or not. He turned his head a little towards him, his gaze bowed towards his own shoulder, opening his mouth, still not knowing what the words should be.

"It'll all be better when you wake up tomorrow," was what came out.

It left him shocked and it left him aching.

"Everything's gonna be better when you wake up tomorrow, little brother," Dean whispered, stroking Adam's blonde hair.

...

"So, I thought you were a little more fond of the kid than that," John said, as casually as he could, as he sat back against the headboard, flipping through channel after channel and feeling the heavy dullness of disinterest and boredom for each of it.

"What are ya talkin' 'bout, Johnny?" Bobby asked, rolling his eyes from his own bed, where he was trying to sleep.

"You got all weird when Dean told you to share a room with Sam," John answered, keeping his eyes on the TV. "You don't like him or something?"

Silence fell over the room. John tried to act as insouciant as possible, but his ears and his curiosity were perked about the whole thing, and the wait had his listening on edge. He continued running through the shows on the screen, not quite looking, his attention stuck on what the old man on the bed next to his would say.

"Nah," Bobby said softly. "I don't got no problem with that boy. If anything, it's quite the opposite." There was a rustle of shifting, clothes against solid mattress. "Ya know, he has only been dropped off at my house at a total of four times in all his years, but he grew on me at the very first. He's a good kid."

"So why didn't you want him with you?" John pressed, forgetting all his pretenses and staring outright at Bobby expectantly, who was lying on his back now instead of his side.

"S'not that I didn't want him around, alright? So quit talking like that," Bobby snapped, glaring at him.

John raised an eyebrow, raising a hand in surrender, hating the limitation of his other injured shoulder. "Alright, so maybe I got that wrong. But why did you seem so bent on sending him off with Dean?"

There was a moment of contemplative silence, before he spoke. "After what they've both been through, ya know? Dean losin' his brother and Sam not really havin' a brother at all," Bobby paused, sighed. "I just thought... that maybe each other was what they needed best right now. I wasn't entirely makin' a half-assed excuse when I said I wanted im' to find a friend in Dean. Maybe even a brother. And I wanted Dean to do the same with him."

John couldn't explain the burning ache inside of him at the answer, the pain of those words twisted into the anger raging in his sternum.

"Now we done playing twenty-questions, Johnny?" Bobby snarked, looking at him.

"Yeah, whatever."

Author's Note: I'm so, so, so sorry. I know that this is becoming a regular thing now, and trust me, I already know I suck for it and I feel like it too. I've just been going through some emotional and mental things, but I think I'm getting better now. I can't say if that will mean more frequent updates (I sure hope it'll be that good), but I have promised before and I will do so again, this story will be completed. I don't want to be the writer who disappears in the middle of a story, who leaves their readers hanging forever (I know that pain. Trust me). If I discontinue a story, I'll let you know, and I'll try my best to keep that to a minimum. But I've made a promise for this story and 'Broken Soul' that I'll complete it, and that means I will. I hope you guys believe me when I say that. I understand it might be hard, with how late each and every one of my updates are, and for you, you might think I'll disappear this time for good. But I won't.

Thank you for still sticking with me, for your patience and loyalty between each space of time in my updates, for your amazing support in each chapter, no matter how horribly late it is. I ask that you don't lose that with me. I really do want to do better, but my mental health keeps getting in the way, and I'm trying my best. Please believe that.

You all are awesome! *tackle hugs*

P.S: did this chapter seem a little rushed? *is unsure* I hope not.