Chapter 3 One Year Later
100-Mile Wilderness, Maine
Erica snapped awake as light poured through the thin canvas of the tent walls.
She hated camping, hated the bugs and the hard ground bruising her hips and shoulders, hated the taste of the water, flat and tepid after boiling, hated the fear that accompanied her down into sleep and lurked around the edges of her dreams all through the night. She especially hated strange things happening outside the tent when she was lying inside, vulnerable and unprotected by four solid walls. She sat up and grabbed the shoulder of the man lying beside her, shaking it hard.
"Will, get up. Something just happened," she said, hating the way her heart was pounding in her chest.
Will struggled out of sleep as the light faded and the tent slipped into semi-darkness again, the small butane light in the corner creating more shadows than it dispelled. Behind the tent, they both heard the crackle of steps through the undergrowth, the snap of branches. From the corner of her eye, Erica saw the figure move fast past the tent. Then the noise stopped.
"Go," she hissed at him. "Go do something."
"W-what'm I supposed to –" He looked at her face and turned over, scrabbling in his pack for the flashlight he'd left there. He rolled onto his feet and walked out of the tent, the flashlight beam swinging wildly as he tried to see into the trees that surrounded them.
"Hello? Hello?" The forest was silent, and he realised that half-asleep and under Erica's immediate hysterical response, he'd been fooled. "It was a deer." The explanation made perfect sense.
He started to relax as he turned back to the tent. "I don't know. It was like – it was a deer or something –" Something crackled behind him and he swung around, the flashlight beam lighting up something that was definitely not a deer. "Oh!"
The man standing in front of him looked like a soldier, he thought later, covered in grime and blood and his eyes as dark and cold as stones at the bottom of a river.
"Where am I?" The voice was deep, roughened.
"What?" Will said, his mind blanking at the question.
Erica came out behind Will, all thoughts of helping him vanishing as she stared at the man in the flashlight beam. The man who pulled a big shiny gun from nowhere and pointed it at them, a click from it loud in the silence between them.
Will stared at the gun. "W– hey, hey."
"Where's the road?" The man raised his voice slightly, staring at them.
This is what it feels like to face Death, Will thought incoherently. It was a thought he'd remember later on, one that made him feel more heroic about the situation in the safety of retrospect.
"Twelve miles, that way." He pointed in the direction of the nearest road. The man's eyes cut in that direction briefly, returning to them. On the ground beside the tent's flaps, their backpacks drew his gaze. He took a step closer to them, and they backed away. Neither could believe it when he grabbed Will's blue pack and snatched it up, running straight into the darkness of the woods.
"Holy crap," Will said, his vision greying slightly around the edges, his knees wobbling and shaking. "What the crap was that?"
Erica stood beside him, staring after the man. This was the absolute last time she was ever going camping. Ever.
Clayton, Louisiana. May 2012.
He started as the hand touched his shoulder, coming to full wakefulness as the man beside him looked back at the road.
"We're here," Alsop touched the brakes and the pickup slowed, pulling off slightly. "S'far as I can take ya, anyways."
"Down there," the driver pointed to the narrow dirt lane behind Dean. "Two mile. You'll see the old gates."
"Thanks," Dean Winchester grabbed the pack and opened the door, getting out and squinting in the bright sunlight.
Dean walked around the front of the truck and started down the lane. Down there. Two miles. His mouth curved up to one side. Two miles would be a walk in the park. He shifted the pack higher onto his shoulder and stretched out a little more, finding the long stride that ate up the miles without effort. He'd had enough practice in the last year.
Settle down in there, he thought, sweat beading his forehead as pain jumped through his nervous system and he shook his arm. Nearly there, compadre. Nearly there.
Dusk came quickly and it was full night, the air soft and warm and filled with the whine of insects when he stopped by the pillar. "Lafitte". Alsop'd been right. He walked between the sagging gate posts and picked out the windmill, its sails outlined in the light of the moon just rising, the frame skeletal against pinpricks of stars that filled the black sky.
Five paces from the north-east corner of the windmill. He looked down and measured out the distance with his feet, looking down at the ground when he reached the end.
"This better be you, you son of a bitch," he said softly, and drove the shovel into the earth.
The pain was getting worse. Could the bastard see through his skin, through his eyes at how close they were? Could he feel his bones lying down there in the dirt? He bit back a cry as his arm shuddered, fire racing up and down it from wrist to shoulder.
The thump of the blade of the shovel against something other than dirt was familiar enough. He scraped the soil back, revealing the skeleton lying there, and breathed a sigh of relief. Six feet down and in not too bad condition. Tossing the shovel out of the grave, he pulled himself out, twisting at the lip of the grave to sit on the edge, clenching his fist and setting his jaw against the escalating pain.
"All right." He rolled onto his knees and stood up and his arm was on fire, burning under the skin like lye.
"Hold on, you bastard." Gingerly rolling up the shirt sleeve, he looked down at the pulsing red and gold lump under his skin. "Hold on!"
His arm was … writhing … the entity held in it impatient to be out. He slit the skin across the throbbing bulge carefully, relieved for the keenness of the blade, twisting his arm slowly and extending it over the grave.
"Anima corpori. Fuerit corpus. Totem resurgent."
Christ, it hurt more coming out than it had going in, he thought, a groan escaping between his teeth as he clenched his fist tight and the final drops hit the bones. The interior of the grave was lit up, the almost solid light soaking into the skeleton, lighting up each bone as it took possession.
Dean fell against the pile of dirt beside the grave, holding his arm. "Wow."
He rolled down his sleeve, his breath coming out in short gasps as the memory of the pain persisted in his flesh. Behind him, Benny appeared. He felt his presence instantly.
"Well, that was fast," he said, grudgingly impressed.
"No thanks to you. The hell took you so long?" Benny asked him truculently, a smile in the crinkle of his eyes.
Dean staggered to his feet, holding his arm close against his chest. "You're welcome."
Benny tilted his head this way and that, the bones cracking in the still night air.
"Everything working?"
"Good enough," Benny said, opening his mouth wide. Over the existing teeth a second set descended, pointed and longer than those they covered. They withdrew a moment later and he looked back at Dean.
"So... what now?"
"Like we talked about, I guess." Dean looked at him, his expression wary, but warmth in his eyes.
Benny nodded, looking down for a moment. "Then this is goodbye."
Dean felt something close inside of him at the word. Goodbyes were a part of his life, usually a permanent part. The man – the vampire – in front of him had been with him up the sharp end, and the bond that created, the ties that forged, were not simple or painless to lay aside, no matter how much they both knew it was necessary. Essential.
"Keep your nose clean, Benny. You hear me?"
Benny walked toward Dean and held out his hand, Dean putting his own into it and shaking it. They looked at each other for a moment, and he felt the memories of a thousand kills, of blood and fear and desperation crowd painfully into his mind.
"We made it, brother. I can't believe it," Benny said, laughing softly, pulling Dean close to him, his arms going around him.
"You and me both," Dean agreed with a wide smile over the vampire's shoulder. And then some, he thought. He was acutely aware that the air he was breathing was fresh and filled with scents and tastes. That the sounds he could hear, close and distant, were cars and motorbikes and a plane flying somewhere a mile above them. There were monsters here too, he knew, but they weren't here in force and here he needed to eat. To drink. To sleep. He would not heal magically here. To be fatally wounded was to die.
The vampire pressed against him was vulnerable here. More so than himself, he thought. He tightened his hold on Benny then released him, stepping back slightly.
"Don't do anything stupid, Benny."
The lazy, three-cornered smile spread over the vampire's face for a moment, then faded. "You neither, cher."
Kermit, Texas. May 2011.
The bedroom was striped as the moonlight shone through the slatted blinds at the windows. Sam packed his duffel quietly, looking around. This place was theirs, his and hers. Theirs. It was the first time since college that he'd been in one place for so long. Made one place his own. His chest was constricting and he forced the air from his lungs, drawing in another breath more quietly. He heard Amelia's breathing change, from sleep to waking, but didn't acknowledge it. They'd said all they needed to say and he had to go. He ruffled Riot's fur and walked to the door, stopping for a moment in the doorway, doubts rising again. He'd told her he'd be back. It was up to her to believe him, believe in him. He closed the front door quietly as he left the house.
Getting into the Impala, he thought of the distance. Two days. He'd make Casper in about fifteen hours and get some sleep, then head out again from there. The engine rumbled as he turned the key, and he pulled out, headlights bright against the night, the familiar noises and smells of the car soothing the nameless anxiety he'd felt since hearing his brother's voice.
Alive. He was alive. And back.
Somewhere along NM-39 N, New Mexico.
First light filled the car with pale shades of mauve, and Sam gradually realised that the headlights were no longer lighting the road ahead of him, their brightness washed out by the dawn. He glanced at the dash, at the fuel gauge and thought about filling up, getting something to eat and another cup of coffee. He felt tired, but there was a buzz along his nervous system as well, a tension he couldn't release, couldn't expel.
"You said you wanted a normal life, Sam," Amelia had said, looking at his face as he'd closed the phone.
"I do."
"So running off now, that's how you're going to get it?" The words had held a faint accusatory edge, and he'd known that she was feeling the abandonment, feeling him slipping from her. He turned and sat down beside her, taking her hand.
"It's not rational, okay. I know that, but this is a leftover – it's something I have to do before I can do anything else," he'd said, trying to find the words to make her understand. It was a responsibility that he'd shirked, that he'd left behind along with the phones, along with the jobs that he'd seen in the newspapers and turned a blind eye to.
"He's my brother, my family."
That hadn't been the right thing to say. She couldn't argue with that and it had made the abandonment more real for her.
"I gave up on everything," he tried again. "And some of the things that I gave up on were things that I shouldn't have, should've tried harder to get done."
"I don't understand."
"I know," he'd shaken his head helplessly. "I don't really myself. What we do, Dean and me, what we did, I have to get it clear with him that for me that's over with now."
Amelia pulled in a deep breath, not looking at him, but understanding what he'd been trying to say. "Closure."
"Kind of, I guess," Sam said, shrugging. It wasn't really, nothing was ever resolved in his life, just pushed to a different place. "It's important."
She'd nodded. "Will you come back?"
"Yes." That he was sure of. "And you have to deal too, now."
She'd turned away, and he saw her fear. The man she'd loved first had come back. Sam knew what she was afraid of, losing them both. In a way, it was better this way. She needed time to make a decision, to see what was right for her and he would be in the way of that, if he was here.
He thought of the conversation as the first rays of sunlight stretched out over the desert around him, lighting up the rocks and bare, dry fields, lighting up the side of his face and the inside of the car and the great open bowl of the sky to his right.
He wanted that life now, now that he could see it. Wanted the quiet routine of the days and peaceful contentment of the nights. Wanted the growing feelings for the woman left behind and where that might lead, what it might lead to. He wasn't healed. But he thought, that maybe, in time, he could be.
Whitefish, Montana. May 2011.
The tyres crunched over the gravel outside of the cabin, and Sam touched the brake, peering up the cabin for any sign of movement. There were none, but that didn't mean anything. He turned off the engine and got out, the clunk of the door loud in the silence of the mountainside.
Opening the front door, he couldn't see anything different inside, and he walked in.
There was no sound or warning when the impact took him from the side, just a hard, steely strength and weight on him, the cold splash of water pouring over him.
"What the –? I'm not a demon." He shook his head, twisting to look at the man above him. It was his brother, he thought remotely, but not. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the shadows and hollows in Dean's face.
The sharp chemical smell of borax filled his nostrils as the liquid spilled down his neck.
"Or a Leviathan. What –"
Fingers like iron rods closed around his wrist and the razor keen edge of a blade sliced into his skin, shockingly bright as the nerves registered pain.
"Or a shifter. Good." Dean got to his feet, leaving his brother lying on the floor. "My turn. Come on. Let's go." He held the bottles of holy water and borax out for Sam.
"I don't need to," Sam said, holding his arm and looking up at him. "I know it's you."
"Damn it, Sammy!" Dean said irritably, as he poured the borax and holy water over himself, and then held out the knife to him. "Come on!"
"No! Dean, can I just say hello?"
Dean's mouth thinned slightly as he rolled up his sleeve and made a cut across the inside of his forearm.
"All right." He looked at Sam, smiling as he wound a grimy bandanna over the cut. "Well ... let's do this."
"I don't know whether to give you a hug or take a shower," Sam said, looking at his brother, down at himself.
Dean laughed. "Come here."
As he felt Dean's arms close around him, Sam let go of the last of his deeply held fear, feeling it seep out of him. A year was a long time not to look at something, to not let something out. He tightened his hold on his brother, gradually registering that the muscle under his hands was like iron, and that he could feel a thrum through Dean's frame, not a shiver, or a tremor, but a fast vibration. He pulled back, looking into his face. For a second, he saw some expression in Dean's eyes, some darkness. It was gone and he realised he didn't want to know what it had been.
"Dude. You're... freakin' alive," he said, turning and walking away, lifting his hands and running them over his face as he simultaneously tried to absorb the reality of it, and the implications for himself. "I mean, what the hell happened?"
"Well, I guess standing too close to exploding Dick sends your ass straight to Purgatory," Dean said lightly, watching him.
"So you were in Purgatory? For the whole year?"
"Yeah, time flies when you're running for your life." He looked away, not catching the emphasis in the words.
"Well, how'd you get out?"
"I guess whoever built that box didn't want me in there any more than I did," he said, the shadowy expression flicking across his face again before it was covered by a humourless smile.
Sam looked blank. "What does that mean?"
"I'm here, okay?" Dean said quietly, feeling a humming in his nerves. So much he couldn't talk about now.
"What about Cas? Was he there?" Sam asked.
Dean turned away, walking a few steps, then stopping, and Sam saw the tension in his shoulders, in his back.
"Yeah, Cas didn't make it."
"What does that mean?" The tone in his brother's voice had been off. There was a lot Dean wasn't saying out loud. There was a lot neither of them were saying out loud.
"Something happened to him down there. Things got pretty hairy towards the end, and he just... let go," Dean said slowly.
"Cas is dead? You saw him die?"
"I saw enough."
"So, then what, you're not sure?" Sam looked at him, trying to see past the tension and omissions. He wasn't sure why Dean wasn't being honest about it. And that worried him.
Dean turned back to him, his face hard. "I said I saw enough, Sam."
"Right." Sam recoiled slightly from the warning implicit his brother's tone. Dean looked liked a stranger. A stranger who didn't know him, and didn't care about him.
"Dean, I'm sorry." Cas had been his brother's friend. The loss could have been the reason, he thought. Something told him it wasn't – at least, it wasn't all of it.
"Me too," Dean said shortly, and took a breath, turning away. "So you – I can't believe you're actually here."
He walked to the fridge and pulled out a couple of beers. "You know that half your numbers are out of service? Felt like I was leaving messages in the wind."
Putting one of the bottles on the table for his brother, he sat down and opened the other, looking up at Sam.
Well, here it is, Sam thought. "Yeah, I-I didn't get your messages, not until the last one."
"How come?"
"Probably because I ditched the phones."
"Because ...?" Dean's brows drew together as he looked at him.
"I guess, um ... I guess something happened to me this year, too," he said quietly, shrugging. "I don't hunt anymore."
Dean grinned. "Yeah."
Sam looked down, exhaling loudly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?" Dean pressed a little harder. "You quit?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I – you were gone ... Dean. Cas was gone, Bobby was dead. I mean, Crowley even shipped off Kevin and Meg to parts unknown."
"So you just turned tail on the family business."
"Nothing says "family" quite like the whole family being dead," he said dryly.
"I wasn't dead." Dean stared at him, shaking his head slowly. He stood up and walked around his brother. "In fact, I was knee-deep in God's armpit killing monsters, which, I thought, is what we actually do."
"Yeah, Dean," Sam felt the old defences rising and he pushed them down hard. They didn't need the same old shit. "And far as I knew, what we do is the thing that got every single member of my family killed. I had no one – no one. And for the first time in my life, I was completely alone."
He looked at Dean's face, the cool appraisal he could feel in his brother. Dean, filing away another failing, he thought, another mistake. He tried to bury that thought. "And, honestly, I-I didn't exactly have a roadmap," he added.
"Did you look for me, Sam?" His brother wasn't looking at him when he asked, and Sam felt a shiver snake through him.
He looked at the beer on the table. "I blew up the labs. I nuked Roman's networks and data. I drove from Boston to LA to get some kind of information – any kind of information on how to get into Purgatory," he said softly, turning to look at Dean. "The next eclipse isn't until 2013, you know."
"And …?" Dean's tone was very quiet.
"And I ran out of options. Ran out of leads," Sam said. "And then I ran out of hope."
"So you quit?"
"Yeah, I quit," Sam admitted. "Look, I'm still the same guy, Dean."
"Well, bully for you." The smile wasn't a smile, Sam saw. "I'm not."
Dean walked out of the cabin, closing the door behind him. Sam looked at the door, then at the floor. It probably could've gone better, he thought. Couldn't've gone much worse.
"Welcome back," he murmured softly.
The cabin seemed better at night. Smaller, but the lamps gave a softer light, hid the dirt and the mess, made it look homier, Sam thought, stirring the canned stew on the stove. He turned as he heard the thump of a box on the low table.
His brother was sitting on the sofa, looking through the box of phones. Should've really gotten rid of those, Sam thought, with a slight sigh.
"You want something to eat?" he asked him. Dean pulled out an earpiece, unkinking the length of wire.
"Pass." His gaze flicked up to Sam and back to the box as he put the earpiece in.
"Okay," Sam said quietly. He turned back to the stove. He closed his eyes as he recognised his father's tactic. No silent treatment. Just frigidly cold courtesy.
He turned off the stove and spooned the hot food into a bowl, setting it on the table and sitting. Dean sat on the sofa, completely still, listening to the messages. Sam felt a shiver as his brother turned to look at him, his expression mingled fury and disappointment.
He was like Dad, Sam thought, feeling his heart leap into his throat at the expression. He felt fourteen again, John's cold gaze on him, knowing he'd done something wrong, really wrong, uncertain of what it was.
"What?"
Dean pulled the earpiece out and put the phone message on speaker, increasing the volume.
"Sam Winchester, it's Kevin Tran. Crowley had me in this warehouse, and I just escaped. I don't know where I am. And I don't know if he or – or any other demons are still after me. I need your help. Call me back. It's Kevin Tran."
Sam listened, his stomach sinking. So much for Crowley.
"When was that?"
Dean looked back at the phone and played the next message, his face stony.
"Sam Winchester. It's Kevin Tran. I called you a week ago. Call me, please. I don't know what the hell I'm doing out here, man."
Christ. No. The sinking sensation intensified and it took his appetite with it. Sam looked down at the bowl of congealing stew unhappily.
"Okay," he said, nodding and getting to his feet, walking around the table. "I get it. So, what, you want to ... strategize or something?" He looked at his brother, knowing it wasn't okay, it would never be okay.
Dean ignored him, playing the next message and looking up at him.
"Sam, it's Kevin. I'm... Whoo! I'm so good."
Sam frowned, listening. "Is he...drunk?"
"Three months since you ditched my ass. Haven't slept for more than four hours a night. It's all good in the 'hood. Uh, if you're still alive, eat me."
Dean looked back at the phone, forwarding to the next message. Sam felt that sudden surge of memory again, crossing over, his father staring at him, not explaining what he'd done wrong, showing him. Show and tell with his father. Never to be forgotten.
"Eat me!"
Dean looked back at Sam, brows raised. Sam met his gaze, and looked away.
"Sam, it's been six months. I can only assume you're dead. If not, don't try and reach me. You won't be able to. I won't be calling this number anymore."
He closed his eyes briefly at the change in Kevin's voice. The flat inevitability of the kid's words. He looked at the floor as Dean stood slowly, his expression filled with a disappointment that looked identical to their father's.
"He was our responsibility," Dean said, his voice low. He threw the phone at Sam's chest. "And you couldn't answer the damn phone."
The difference was … when John Winchester had made his point, and he'd felt like a piece of shit on the man's shoe, his brother had been standing behind him, waiting for their father to leave, waiting to tell Sam it was okay, it wasn't so terrible, whatever it was he'd done, waiting to make him feel better. Now there was no one. And he knew that Dean was right. Kevin had been left out in the cold, on his own. Six months he'd managed to stay clear of Crowley and the demons, six months on his own. Twelve months now. On his own.
Two hours later, Sam bent closer to the speaker, listening to the message again. There was something under Kevin's voice, it didn't sound like distortion. He glanced at the sofa. Dean was sitting there, reading something. He could still see the disapproval and anger in the stillness of his position. The cabin was uncomfortably cold with the tension between them.
There it was, a voice, a definite voice.
"All right, listen to this – Kevin's last message. Listen to the background," he said, looking at the back of Dean's head. For a moment it didn't move, then he saw him turn his head slightly.
"If not, don't try and reach (last) me. (stop) You (Centreville) won't be able to. I won't be calling this number anymore."
"Hear that?"
"What is it?" Dean turned his head a little further.
"I think he was on a bus. Listen again." He re-cued the message and adjusted the track volumes.
"Last stop – Centreville."
Dean stood up and walked over to the table, holding his beer as he looked at his brother.
"Centreville? Centreville, where?"
"Michigan," Sam answered, pulling up the search window.
"And why would Kevin be in Centreville, Michigan?" he asked, wondering at Sam's sudden industriousness in finding the teenager who'd needed him and whom he'd abandoned. Along with his brother, of course.
"Because ..." Sam said, entering Kevin's name and hitting the Enter key. "His high-school girlfriend goes to college there." He turned the laptop around, showing Channing Ngo's details on the screen.
"That's thin." Dean glanced at the screen.
"It's the best lead we got," Sam's gaze cut away and back.
"'We'?" He looked down at his brother, brows drawing together. He watched as Sam looked away, all pretence of things being normal jettisoned.
"You were right," Sam said simply. "He was our responsibility. So ... let's find him, okay?"
Dean looked at him consideringly. He didn't know if his brother was acting out of guilt or responsibility or just trying to smooth out what had happened between them. He wondered vaguely if that mattered. He couldn't relax. Couldn't stop the micro adrenalin surges that hit him with every unknown noise, every flickering shadow that crossed his peripheral vision.
He needed Sam to be around, needed him to feel grounded, if only a little, until he could adjust, get his own head clear again. He was being split between wanting things to be back to normal, and knowing that now, they never could be.
They walked down the steps to the car in the pale grey light of pre-dawn. Dean looked at her as Sam opened the trunk. The old rush, the old affection and love he'd felt for her was … not gone, not entirely, but muted, washed out, like the way he'd felt about a favourite toy after he'd grown too old to play with it. He sighed. He wanted those feelings back. He wanted her to be more than just a way to get from A to B. He wasn't sure if they would come back.
Looking at the weapons in the trunk, he felt his mouth lift slightly at one corner. How many times had he wished for this arsenal. But he'd managed without it. The stone axe lay tucked alongside the long machetes. He let his gaze linger on it. It was tangible. Real. Proof that it all happened, exactly the way he remembered it. It also sent a jolt of electricity through his nervous system to look at it. He closed the false lid and threw his bag on top, shutting the trunk lid and walking automatically to the driver's side.
"Hey."
He looked up and caught the keys as they flew over the roof. Stopping next to the driver's door, he looked over her again, feeling Sam's expectation of some sort of comment.
"Well ... no visible signs of douchery – I'll give you that," he said, looking back at his brother. They got in and the smell hit him immediately. He'd smelled every variety of canine, at close quarters and under every kind of condition. And what he could smell now was faint but recognisable. "Smell like dog to you?"
Sam inhaled deeply, looking around. "In the car?"
"You tell me," he said, looking suspiciously at his brother. Sam shrugged, brows rising nearly to his hairline. "Hmm."
He turned the key and even the sound, the deep, basso song of the car, did little more than brush at his memories. He frowned as he pulled out of the gravel turnaround, feeling the missing parts as if they were holes, a cold wind whistling through them, through him.
Palm Motel, Dickinson, North Dakota.
He pulled up in front of the motel's office, and stopped the engine, sitting and listening to the noises surrounding them. Traffic on the road. Another plane. A jackhammer somewhere more distant. He could hear the swooping variations in the conversation of two woman talking on the other side of the lot. Sam was looking at him.
"I'll get a room," Sam said, getting out.
Dean sat there for a moment longer, then opened the door. The light was bright still, flat and grey under the low cloud cover, but still bright. His eyes narrowed against it. He was hungry. He looked around and saw the machine, tucked against the motel wall.
When he reached it, he looked at the packets of chips and the chocolate bars, bags of peanuts – salted, non-salted, dipped in chocolate, roasted – and candies helplessly. He couldn't remember what any of it tasted like.
He recognised the packets. But the contents were … not quite there, in his mind. In his memories. They were flat and two-dimensional, telling him … sweet, sour, salty … but no longer accompanied by the memory of the actual taste.
Coming out of the office, Sam slowed as he caught sight of his brother, standing and staring at the vending machine.
Sam walked slowly to the car, ducking his head to see the keys still in the ignition. He glanced back at Dean as he slid into the driver's seat, but his brother hadn't moved, so far as he could see.
Driving the car into the slot for the room, he turned off the engine and got out, another glance confirming that Dean was still across the lot. Sam opened the trunk and pulled out the bags, slinging his own across his shoulder as he shut the trunk.
He was staring at it as if he'd never seen one before, he realised abruptly. As if he didn't understand it. He felt a slight shiver run up his spine and he turned away, opening the room door and taking their gear inside. When the bags were on the floor, he debated going back out. He'd seen his brother lost – truly lost – only twice in his life. Both times had scared the crap out of him. Both times had been the result of a fracturing in his brother, something breaking inside of him that he wasn't sure, even now, had ever been repaired. He looked down at the floor. He didn't want to try to reach him. He didn't think he could face seeing Dean like that again.
"Come on, I got you!"
Dean pulled his attention from the machine and watched as two boys ran toward him, the muted crack-crack of their toy guns ricocheting slightly in his mind.
"No way."
At that range? he thought derisively, no question, kid. You're dead.
"You're dead!" The boy obviously thought so too.
"No way, I'm not dead at all!"
Just like – he shut the thought off fast. He was trying not to think about it. Trying to keep it down and buried deep. It didn't stay buried though. It never stayed buried, no matter how much he covered it over with other memories, other events, people, experiences.
It had been hard. Bloody. Painful. Frightening. Lonely. But after awhile, it had gotten, not easier, but more predictable, maybe. More manageable. And for at least some of the time, it had been exhilarating. An adrenalin rush that had no equal. And it had been darkness too.
He dragged in a deep breath, leaning against the smooth glass cover of the machine as the memories tried to break through. He could look back at some of it. But not all of it. Not and remain sane.
When the images subsided, he rubbed his hand over his face and looked at the food in the machine.
It wasn't real, he thought. None of this … he looked around at the parking lot, at the road and stores and businesses beyond it … none of it was real.
He sat on the edge of the bed, hearing things outside, his nerves thrumming with tension. It wasn't safe to stay in one place too long. They could be found. They needed to keep moving. His hands itched slightly and he rubbed them together absently, his head turning slightly as he caught more sounds from outside.
Sam came out of the bathroom and looked at him. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said, his attention on the cricket that had suddenly stopped calling outside. "Yeah, what do you say we blow this joint, hit the road?"
Keep moving. Just keep moving. His night vision was all shot to hell with the lights in here.
Sam looked at him blankly. "Now?"
"Yeah, Kevin's not getting any more found," Dean struggled to find a reason for his brother. One that did not include how fucking unsafe it was to stay in one place for too long.
Sam smiled a little, leaning against the door frame. "The kid survived a year without us. He'll be okay for another twelve hours. Besides, when's the last time you slept?"
Dean looked down at his hands, then away from them. "Hmm."
"What?"
"Nothing," he said, looking back up at his brother. "Is that, uh, that how you rationalized taking a year off?"
Sam straightened, feeling defensive.
Dean gestured broadly. "People will be okay?"
"People were okay, Dean," Sam said, exhaling. "You're okay."
Dean smiled disbelievingly. "Wow."
"Look, I did what we promised we'd do," Sam said slowly. "I moved on. I lived my life."
"Yeah, no, I'm getting that," he agreed readily.
Sam stepped away from the bathroom door, walking to the bed next to his brother's.
"Look, it wasn't like I was... just oblivious," he added, gesturing widely. "I mean, I read the paper every day. I saw the weird stories, the kind of stuff we used to chase." He sat on the bed.
"And you said what? 'Not my problem'?"
"Yes," Sam replied firmly. "And you know what? The world went on."
The humour had died out of Dean's face. "People died, Sam."
Sam looked at him patiently. "People will always die, Dean. Or maybe another hunter took care of it. I don't know, but the point is, for the first time, I realised that it wasn't only up to me to stop it."
Dean looked at him for a moment. "Hm. So what was it? Hmm? What could possibly make you stop just like that?"
Sam let out his breath and rolled his eyes. Dean recognised his brother's reluctance.
"A girl? Was there a girl?"
"The girl had nothing to do with it," Sam said quietly, his gaze dropping.
Dean's eyes narrowed slightly. "There was a girl."
"Yeah. There was," Sam admitted tiredly. "And then there wasn't."
For a second, Dean felt something, or saw something in his brother that he hadn't seen for a long time. He recognised it. And he shoved the recognition away, not wanting to look at that part of their past, where it had all begun, years ago, eons ago, it felt like. Back when the only piece missing was his mother.
Sam was looking at him. "Any more questions?"
No. No more questions, he thought. Sam had been taking a year off with a girl. He'd been fighting for his life down under … somewhere. And Kevin had been running blind and terrified.
No more questions needed.