A/N First, and again, I'm sorry I'm not updating this on anything like a regular schedule. I won't go into details, but I will say that 1) being a caretaker for a live-in elderly, handicapped relative just SUCKS in a bunch of ways and b) Insomnia is surprisingly unconducive to writing ability
Second, Welcome to the series! Starting at the very beginning, with the Pilot.
A few quick housekeeping notes: For the most part, I will not be rewriting the episodes. While I do like to read those, I just have an issue writing them — my brain fights my muse and the end result is that I get stuck in the weeds, searching for details that probably don't matter, and just slow me down (those of you following along with the explanatory A/Ns at the end of my chapters will probably understand. I'm a little like Sam, that way — I live to research). So, what you'll see mostly related to a specific episode are my own "missing scenes" or epilogues, with maybe a little bit of those pieces of the episode that I find critical thrown in.
If I am including an episode by reference, I will let you know that with my location notes. Also because of the lack of solid dating for much of the series, my usual date/time may be skipped in favor of that episode note, or I may be just guessing or otherwise winging it.
Also, since it's been asked a couple times, I do now have an account on AO3, but I'm still getting my bearings over there, so have not published this over there (yet).
And that's enough of that! On with the story.
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Outside Room 26
The College Inn Motel
Palo Alto, CA
6:09 am
November 2, 2005
Dean rested against the hood of his baby, arms crossed, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, as he waited for Sam to get them a room at the low rent motel at the edge of town.
Over the roof, the sky was starting to lighten, a pearly grey glow starting to form on the edge of the low clouds hanging over the bay, but Dean barely noticed, thinking back on the last three hours.
Dean still didn't know why he'd turned around. Sure, he'd glanced at his watch and suddenly saw the date, but they'd been through twenty-one November 2nds, without a problem. Except, until now, all the Winchester men had been more or less single. Well, Sam had been seeing Jess the last couple of years, but it hadn't occurred to Dean to worry before.
Maybe it was actually seeing Sammy again.
Maybe it was getting his little brother out on a hunt for the first time in nearly two years.
Maybe it was the fact that Jess bore a creepy - if superficial - resemblance to their mom.
Whatever, he'd had a need to turn around, to make sure that Sammy and his girl were okay.
When he'd pulled up across the street from the apartment building, the smoke and flickers of light he'd seen through the windows had stolen his breath and sent his heart plummeting down to his stomach.
Before he'd even kicked in his brother's front door, he'd known what he'd find, known to head straight for Sammy's room. He'd known what he'd see when he ran to the bedroom and dragged Sammy out, fighting him all the way down to the car.
He'd had to use his full weight to pin Sammy to the door of the car to keep the kid from running back inside, and Dean had the bruises on his shins and arms to prove it.
He was proud of the way the kid had handled himself with the fire department and the police, though. It was kind of amazing. Seven years away from the constant drilling and coaching from their dad, and Sammy had been perfectly prepared — the perfect story, perfectly told, to deflect suspicion, blame, and any hint of the supernatural.
Were you home this weekend? The questions came from a forgettable man in a uniform — fireman? police? arson inspector? Dean had no idea, and cared less.
Sam had been perfect, no sign of being rehearsed, no sign of his statement being the lies, near-lies and lies-of-omission Dean knew them to be. No, I was taking a trip with my brother.
Where did you go? Nowhere in particular. We hadn't seen each other for a while, just wanted to get away for a bit.
Where did you end up? (A casual shrug, a quick glance back at the apartment building) I don't know. Some small town a little ways up north. I don't remember the name. Not sure I ever noticed.
When did you get back? Tonight. Well, this morning, I guess.
What time? (Another shake of the head, another glance over the uniformed shoulder towards the blown out window billowing smoke on the top floor) I don't know. Around…2, 2:30, maybe? I was tired, I didn't notice.
And where was Miss Moore? In the shower, I guess. I didn't check, but I heard the water running.
Was that unusual, for her to be taking a shower so late? Not really. Jess is a night owl, like me. And I'd texted her that I'd be coming back tonight. I'm not surprised she waited up. And she always showers in the morning, anyway, probably just decided to get it over with while she waited for me, so she could sleep a little longer before class.
Hmm. Then what happened? I don't know. She'd baked me cookies. I had one, sat down on the couch.
Not in the bedroom? No. Like I said, Jess was in the shower. (A small, sad, half-smile, the shine of tears in the reddened hazel eyes) She startles easy. (A little chuckle) She yells at me for scaring her when she comes out of the bathroom if she doesn't know I'm home. (A catch of the breath, a long, slow blink) Used to yell.
Then what? (A shake of the head. Another quick look at the building, this time taking in the few people being treated for smoke inhalation on the steps.) I don't know. I woke up, coughing. There was…I—I tried to get to her, to get in the bedroom, but…I couldn't...so much smoke, and the heat, I couldn't…couldn't even see her, couldn't get past the door.
Then your brother pulled you out. (An absent nod) I guess so. I don't remember. I just remem- (a look of such pain, even the interviewer had to look away, and Dean was sure he missed the whisper that followed) — the smell.
Dean had interrupted then ("Hey, my brother's been through enough, don't you think? I'd like to get him out of here."), and pushed Sam towards the car while he explained to the uniform that he'd caught a flicker of weird light in his rear view mirror, and turned around to be sure everything was okay. ("I don't know why, really. Just a bad feeling.")
By the time Dean had walked away from the line of fire trucks — and the coroner's van — and returned to his car, Sammy had been standing with the trunk open, loading a shotgun with rock salt.
"Hey. How you doing?" Of all the stupid, unnecessary questions he could've asked in the moment, Dean figured that was the stupidest.
A deep, shaky breath, and the familiar face had slipped into a mask of complete control. The Winchester way. The tears were gone, the voice was calm. It was as if the entire, broken hearted interview with the fireman — cop — whatever — had been an act.
Dean figured the answer — "I'm fine." — was the lie that his asinine question had deserved.
Still, he was surprised when Sammy had added "We've got work to do," and tossed the shotgun into the trunk, slamming it closed before walking away to get into the car.
And now they were at this crappy motel for the night, and Dean had absolutely no idea what to do next.
What did he say to his broken hearted little brother? How did he fix the unfixable? How could he heal a wound he knew would never, ever heal?
Sammy would never be the same, he knew that. No matter what either of them did, Sammy would never again be the happy, contented, hopeful baby brother he'd conned (guilted) into joining him on a hunt, ever again.
Because Dean had seen this before. He'd been living with the aftermath of this very heartbreak, one way or another, for 22 fucking years.
And now, it was starting all over again, with the one person in their fucked up family who deserved it the least.
"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed, and looked up suddenly, when the door to the last room on the first floor — farthest from the office, in front of which he'd already parked his baby because, hey, old habits died hard — opened, and his brother disappeared inside.
With a sigh, Dean grabbed his duffle from the backseat — he'd have to loan Sammy something to wear that didn't reek of smoke and pain; the kid literally didn't have more than the clothes on his back — and followed Sam inside, bracing himself before he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
He leaned back against the door, flicking the deadbolt over behind his back, and dropped the duffle onto the little table beside the door. And then…he waited.
Because Sammy had been holding it together for public consumption for hours, and the poor bastard was due a meltdown of epic proportions.
Dean knew it was coming, that Sammy couldn't reasonably be expected to remain this well-controlled automaton forever. He knew the breakdown would be spectacular in its scope and intensity.
He didn't expect it to involve a punch to Dean's face.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean barely ducked to the side and caught Sammy's fist in his hand, feeling the sting all the way up his arm (and that was new; kid must've been working out). "What the fuck, Sam?!" he demanded, and took a step away from the door, forcing his brother to take a step back.
Sam shoved — hard — against Dean's chest and Dean fell back against the door, wincing when the handle dug into his hip.
"Why did you do that?!" Sam demanded, slipping easily into the patented Winchester Whisper-Yell.
"Why did…What?"
"You pulled me out," Sam spat and shoved at Dean's shoulder this time, slamming it back into the door frame. "You pulled me out of the bedroom! You pulled me away from Jess!"
"Of course, I pulled you out, asshole! The place was on fucking fire, Sam!"
"I had it!" Sam actually yelled — normal-person yelled — then dropped back a few steps, shaking his head, and turned away, wrapping his arms around his waist as if his stomach ached.
It probably did.
"Sam…" Dean reached a hand towards him, stepping fully into the room for the first time.
"NO!" Sam spun back towards him, slapping his hand aside. "No, Dean. I had it. I had that fire! I was going to put it out, I was getting it away from her," he insisted, and the tears started to flow.
"Wha—Sam…"
"I can control fire, Dean. You know perfectly well I can, you've seen me do it!"
"I've seen you start fires," Dean admitted, finally getting what the fuck his brother was talking about.
"You've seen me put them out," Sam said coldly.
"Not a fire that big," Dean said firmly. "And Sammy, that wasn't a regular fire, you know that."
"What I know, is that I was handling it. And you. Pulled. Me. Out," Sammy growled, poking Dean — hard — in the chest with every word.
Dean grabbed Sammy's wrist before the kid pushed clear through to his ribs. "You're goddamned right I pulled you out," he admitted. "And I'd do it again. Every time."
"WHY? You tell me why! Did you want me back that bad, Dean? Bad enough to let an innocent die to get me fucking hunting again?!"
Dean went still, only his rapid, heavy breaths betraying the direct hit he'd suffered. "I pulled you out," he said evenly, "because you'd have died if I didn't. And I will never apologize for that."
"I could've saved her! If you'd just've let me, I could've saved her," Sammy started to collapse, as the tears finally broke free.
Dean caught his kid in his arms, guiding them gently to the floor and held the tear-dampened face — dark with soot and smoke, striped with clear streaks left by his tears, pale beneath four years of California tan — in his hands.
"No, Sammy," he said, softly, his own tears starting to fall. "You couldn't, little brother. First off, it was demon fire, Sam. Ain't nobody controlling that, except the bastard demon who started it. And even if you could…Dammit, Sammy, she was gone. Before you even saw her, Sammy, she was gone!"
Sam pulled away from Dean's touch, and grabbed the front of his brother's shirt, pulling Dean up off his knees and shaking him, hard. "Don't you talk about her like that!"
Gently, Dean pulled Sammy's hands from his shirt, and tightly held the trembling hands in his own (and when the hell did Sammy's hands get bigger than his? Dean never agreed to that, he was sure). "I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry. But you know I'm right. You know that. I know you know that. We saw it. We both saw it, Sammy. She was dead on the ceiling before the fire even started, man. That cut? That was fatal. She never screamed, she never breathed, she never cried and never made a sound. Sammy, she was gone."
"Oh, god, Jess," the whispered words broke what was left of Dean's heart. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault," Dean told him and pulled the weeping boy into his arms. "It was never your fault, Sammy. It wasn't. Never your fault."
Dean shifted until he was leaning his back against the bottom of one of the beds, and dragged Sammy onto his lap, soothing him as if they were both kids again, totally and deliberately ignoring the fact that Sam hadn't actually fit on his lap in well over a decade, in favor of making them both feel the tiniest bit better.
Dean had no idea how long they sat there, Sam sobbing harder than Dean had ever seen him cry in his life — or at least since he learned to talk, always his little brother's preferred way to express his displeasure — but, eventually, the sobs were replaced with sniffles and ragged breathing, interspersed with the occasional hiccup, and Sammy pulled away, sliding off Dean's legs, wiping his tear- and snot-stained face on his soot-darkened sleeve (which in no way improved the streaky mess on Sam's face) and shifting until the brothers were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, leaning back against the bottom of the bed.
"I'm s-sorry," Sam half-gasped, wiping at his still moist eyes.
"You got nothing to be sorry about, Sammy," Dean assured him and put an arm over his brother's (surprisingly broad) shoulders, pulling the boy closer to his side, not yet ready to stop offering comfort, and relieved that Sammy didn't seem ready to stop taking it.
"I do," he argued. "I said some…god, Dean, what I said to you! I know that's not true, man, I know you were just trying to take care of me. You'd never do anything to hurt me."
"It's okay, Sam," Dean assured him.
"It's not!" Sam insisted. "I practically accused you of starting the fire, and you carried me out of it."
"No big, Sammy," Dean shrugged. "House is on fire, I carry my baby brother out. Apparently, that's my thing."
Sam pulled slightly away to look more closely at Dean's face. "Wha—Wait. you mean…did you…you carrried me out of the fire when Mom died?"
"Yeah," Dean shrugged it off, then really saw the wide-eyed stare greeting him. "What, you didn't know that?"
"No, I…so that was the start of 'look out for Sammy'?"
"Nah," Dean smiled lopsidedly. "That started the first time Mom let me feel you kick. Didn't know if you were a boy or a girl, yet, but you were mine, and nothing was going to happen to you. Not on my watch." The smile faded, and Dean shook his head. "And I'm sorry, Sammy. I fucked that up."
Sam shook his head and shifted closer to Dean again, resting his head on Dean's shoulder. "No. You didn't."
"I did, though," Dean insisted. "I just got so…fuckin' scared of losing Dad, that I…I forgot why I left in the first damn place. And it happened, man, just like I said it would. I led the bastards right to you."
"Not your fault," Sam insisted. "I couldn't stay hidden forever. And I knew they were looking for me, man, I knew it." He let out a deep, slow, shaky breath. "Christ, Dean. I killed her. I killed the only woman I'll ever love."
"No," Dean countered, firmly, "The demon killed her. This is not. Your. Fault, Sammy. You hear me? It wasn't your fault when you were six-months old, and it ain't your fault now."
Sam pulled back again. "Really, Dean? How the hell can you say that? Of course it's my fault. The minute you told me that bastard had put a…a fuckin' bounty on me, I should've walked away from her. I should've broken if off with her right then."
"No," Dean shook his head again. "No, Sammy. You have the right to be happy, man. This isn't on you."
Sam bit his lip and looked away. "It is. I should've realized. What the fuck did I think was gonna happen, somebody like me, trying to live a fucking normal life. What did I expect? A happy ending?! I'm a fucking Winchester. We're all fuckin' cursed. What the hell did I think was going to happen?!"
Dean shifted onto his knees, facing his brother and grabbed Sammy by the shoulders. "NO," he insisted, giving Sam a small shake. "No, Sammy. This. Is. Not. Your. Fault."
"Really, Dean?" Sam challenged. "You don't
think so?"
"I know so. Don't know. Whatever. You know what I mean."
"Right," Sam nodded. "You're so sure, then you look me in the eye and tell me, Dean. Tell me that if Jess wasn't my girlfriend, she wouldn't still be alive right now."
Dean stared at him, but couldn't bring himself to break his silence.
Sam nodded. "Exactly." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the mattress. "Goddammit. She was dead the minute I started dating her," he realized, his voice breaking under the weight of the simple fact. "Son of a mother fucking bitch."
"Aw, Sammy," Dean began.
"Don't," Sam interrupted, his voice firm but no longer angry. "Just…just don't, Dean, okay? I know you're trying to help an' all, but…It doesn't. We both know it's not true, and your saying it just…makes it…worse, somehow. As if this could get worse."
"Sammy," Dean sighed. "I'm so sorry, dude. I wish…I wish I could just take the last couple of days back, you know? I never should've come for you. I should've just kept looking on my own. I'm so sorry."
Sam shook his head. "No, Dean. If it's not my fault, it ain't yours either." He took a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh. "Like you said: the only one at fault is that fucking demon. I'm gonna get him, Dean. I'm gonna kill that bastard."
"We'll get him," Dean agreed. "Son of a bitch doesn't have any idea what he's done. The Winchesters are coming for him, twice as hard as we ever did. Three times." Dean's eyes hardened to flat emeralds of determined hate, his voice a bare whisper of steel that sent a shiver down Sam's spine. "He's gonna go down, and he's gonna go down hard. And I am going to enjoy every fucking second of tearing that asshole apart."
They sat in silence for a moment, shifting slowly towards each other by some kind of brotherly gravitational pull, until their shoulders were touching and their heads were tilted against each other.
"You don't remember," Dean said quietly, "but after Mom died…" He paused and turned his head to look at his brother, who was staring straight ahead at nothing — or, Dean rather suspected, back into the particular hellscape that had been his apartment. "After Mom died, Dad got us settled in a hotel in Lawrence. He bought a bunch of groceries. Milk, baby formula. Ton of diapers. A lot of sugary cereal, because at four, I apparently needed to be more hyper."
That got a chuckle out of Sammy.
"And when we were all settled…He lay on his bed and crawled into a bottle," Dean said softly. "Stayed there for about…three, four months, I think. Only time he stopped drinking was to leave the hotel when I told him we'd run out of food. Or diapers. He was really good about making sure you had enough diapers. Better about that than food, really. But even if we ran out of food, Dad made damn sure he never ran out of liquor."
Dean stood, a little stiffly, and crossed to the small table where he'd dropped his duffle. He unzipped it, and pulled out a towel wrapped in a tight cylinder. He unwound the cloth and pulled out a familiar square bottle.
Sam watched him break the seal and crack it open, and followed Dean with his eyes as his big brother crossed back over to stand in front of him.
"I'm not going to let you do that to yourself, Sammy," Dean said firmly. "But…I figure everybody deserves one night in their lives to get completely shitfaced, and if this isn't your night, I don't know what would be," he shrugged and handed the bottle to his brother before settling back onto the floor beside him.
Sam nodded his thanks, and took a long, slow pull from the bottle. He shifted, pulling one leg up so he could rest his arm on his knee, dangling the bottle from his long fingers for a minute or two before taking another swig.
Dean watched him quietly for a moment, before reaching over to grab the square bottle, taking a swig before handing it back to Sam.
They sat there for a long time, sharing the bottle — meaning Dean taking one drink for every five of Sam's — before Dean spoke again. "Anybody we need to call, let them know you won't be in class or something?"
Sam shook his head and took another long pull from the now half-empty bottle. "Nope," he decided, popping his "p". "For a big school, Stanford's a lot like a small town. Before classes start, everybody'll know what happened. Nobody's gonna 'spect me in class tomorrow. Today," he frowned. "Todorrow. Whatever. And if they do?" He lifted the bottle in a general salute. "Fuck 'em."
"Okay then," Dean suppressed a smile. His baby brother was still a light-weight.
Four years of college partying opportunities, wasted. Another way Dean had let his baby brother down.
"Gonna hav'ta stop at the regis..regster…
that one office," Sam added and Dean nodded as if he had a clue, "before Fri'ay, and let 'em know I'm takin' time off." He lifted the bottle in Dean's general direction and nearly hit his brother in the eye. "Gonna road trip wif my big broth'r. My best big br'th'r," he added, a little teary eyed. "But! But we can' leave till after the fune'l. Funeral. Jess's funeral," he said quietly and started to cry again.
"I know, I know," Dean soothed and put an arm around his brother again. "It's okay," he said quietly when Sam turned and buried his face in the front of Dean's shirt.
"Gonna marry her," Sam said quietly, and lifted his head suddenly, slamming the top of his skull into Dean's chin. "Jou know that?" he asked, brokenly. "I was lookin' at rings."
"Aw, Sammy," Dean said softly, as much to make sure his jaw still worked as anything — he was pretty sure they'd entered Drunken Sammy Phase 3, where Sam just talked and didn't hear anything anybody else said.
"I was gonna do somethin'. Somethin' so corny," he sniffled, and sat back against the bed again, taking another long drink from the now three quarters empty bottle. "I's s'posed to spend Thansgiving with her and her fam'ly. Than'sgiving with the Moores. Was gonna ask her dad for p'mission. And if he didn' give it, I was gonna ask her anyway, but ya gotta ask the dad. 'S just Polite. An' then, after Than'sgiving dinner, we'd go for a walk, I was gonna tell her. The thing I'm mos' thankful for…Is you. Marry me. She'd love that," Sam nodded, crying again. "She loved chick-flick stuff," he told his brother, and finished the bottle. "She'd a' liked that, that pr'osal. She'd like it. And now I can't ask," he sobbed and threw himself back into Dean's arms,
"Okay," Dean said quietly, recognizing Drunk Sammy Phase 4 when he saw it (Drunk Sammy either crying or laughing uncontrollably, whether there was a reason or not. Phase 4 Drunk Sammy had once cried for half an hour at the end of Die Hard, because McClane and Powell would be "such good friends". 12-year-old Phase 4 Drunk Sammy had once giggled his way through math class and straight to the Principal's office, before Dean realized he'd accidentally filled Sam's thermos from a jar of moonshine when Dean had had a concussion after an all-night hunt). That meant that Phase 5 — Drunk Sammy passing the hell out, finally — was imminent. "Come on, Romeo," he grunted and pulled them both to their feet, and walk-dragged Sammy to the side of his bed, before lowering him gently to sit on the edge of the bed.
"Gonna die alone," Sam said suddenly and fell backwards so he was lying crossways on the bed.
"No, you're not," Dean assured him as he pulled him back upright long enough to take off his hoodie and t-shirt before letting him flop semi-bonelessly backwards. "I'll be with you, Sammy." He pulled his brother's boots off and deftly pulled off the jeans before he lifted the long legs onto the bed, and swung Sammy around so his head was vaguely near the pillows. "You won't be alone," he promised.
"'At's not the same," Sam said, with a shake of his head. "Not the same at all, Dean."
"I know, I know," Dean agreed and wrestled Sam's semi-limp form under the covers. "Someday, I'll hook you up, Sammy, when you're a big boy. Then you won't be alone anymore. For now, go to sleep. Just go to sleep," he urged and turned off the light between the beds.
"DEAN!"
"I'm here! I'm right here," Dean assured him, brushing the hair out of the bloodshot eyes.
"Stay with me," Sam said in a voice so small, Dean would almost swear his kid was five again.
"I'm just in the other bed, Sammy. I'm three feet away."
"STAY WITH ME!" Sam grabbed his arm and pulled, hard, almost dragging Dean on top of him.
"Okay! Okay, okay," Dean agreed, and stepped out of his own boots. "Move over, little brother."
"You can't leave me," Sam sniffled and shifted to the far side of the bed. "I can't lose you, too."
"You're not losing me, Sammy," Dean assured him and pulled off his own shirts and jeans — a concession to not wanting to have the bed stink of smoke and other smells neither of them would want to remember the entire time they were there — before sliding into bed beside his brother.
Sam grabbed on to Dean's arm, wrapping both his arms around the bicep. "Damn right, I'm not," Sam agreed and rested his forehead against Dean's shoulder. "Not lettin' go."
Dean opened his mouth to try to reason, gave it up as a bad job all around, and dropped a small kiss on the top of the tousled head. "Okay, Sammy. You just hang on to me, little brother.
And I'll always hang on to you."
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A/N
I don't know if there is actually a College Inn motel in Palo Alto, but I have literally never been to a college town that didn't have one.
Sam's statement that Jess is "the only woman I'll ever love". Yeah, I know. Sarah. Madison. Eileen. But Sammy is 22, barely out of his teens, deeply traumatized and, let's face it, emo as all hell. In that moment, that's what he believes, and probably what he actually intends — to never love again, both for the safety of other women, and in tribute to Jess.
Die Hard is an action movie starring Bruce Willis, and is canonically one of Dean's favorites. McClane was Bruce Willis' character, and Powell was the cop he kept in touch with throughout the film.