Work Text:
Dean couldn’t remember where he was. He didn’t really know how he’d gotten there—he recalled being in the Impala, his hands on the wheel. His car, he recalled. He’d been following Dad’s truck. Going on a hunt together. They hadn’t done that much after Sam had left. It had felt wrong. But they were now. Not because it was a hunt Dean hadn’t thought he’d be able to handle, but…Dad had asked for him. Yeah, that was it, he remembered, now.
They were on a hunt. That was where they were.
That explained why he was holding his gun out, why he was sweeping the room with a flashlight in the other hand. Didn’t explain why his head was aching like that—had he taken a hit to the noggin? Was that why he was confused?
“The hell…?” He lowered his gun, trying to make sense of the room he was in.
Old, ramshackle. It was dark, most likely as dark outside, but he couldn’t recall seeing a sunset. The room was molded and spelled like rotting planks and dead rats. Parts of the walls were caved in, the naked mattress was eaten out, and there wasn’t much more. Papers, coated in dirt. The place was long abandoned. A door was open—he must have come through there.
He grimaced, bringing his flashlight up and digging the butt of it into his forehead. The headache was quickly escalating—unnaturally so. He breathed and he could see the cloud left in the air. Goosebumps raced across his arms. Spirit. Or was it a demon?
He quickly spun around with his gun, bringing it up again, but there was nothing but an empty closet behind him, the door limp on it’s hinges. The light of his flashlight flickered.
He squeezed the grip of his gun to reassure himself, only to realize that was all he had—his colt. No shotgun, no salt rounds. He could be loaded up with iron bullets, but he knew himself better than that—no way he’d risk damaging his colt with those things. He’d have grabbed a back-up, if that were the case.
“What is going on?” He mumbled to himself, swinging his gun around in a last sweep of the room before kicking the door out.
It swung with a loud creak and smashed into the wall beside it. The sound echoed in the otherwise deadly silent house. Dean stepped into a hallway—long, like those of a boys’ home, rather than a suburban house. He carefully glanced both ways.
His migraine abruptly thrummed against his skull, pulling a sharp inhale from him. God, what had he done to his damn head? The pain didn’t simmer down—it continued to ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump, like the beat of his heart was invading his brain. It began to shift black spots into his vision and he focused on keeping his gun steady, gritting his teeth against the pain.
This was bad. He was a liability, not being able to recall how he’d even gotten here. He couldn’t go on like this or else he may become an extra body that his dad would need to deal with.
He took a deep breath. “DAD!”
His head ached with the force of his shout. Spots danced in his vision—but the call echoed throughout the silent house.
A creak behind him. Dean spun, despite his oncoming dizziness, gun held steady.
His flashlight illuminated the bearded face of his father. “Hey! Watch where you’re pointing that damn thing!”
Dean quickly dropped his aim. “Sorry, sorry.”
An uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach battled for his attention against his thumping migraine. He hadn’t heard his dad coming at all—like at all—and Dean thought of himself as pretty aware. Maybe the headache was doing more than he’d thought.
“Did you find it, yet?” His dad asked, his face swimming in Dean’s vision.
Oh, that wasn’t right. The world began to wobble, like Dean had too much whiskey. But he hadn’t even had a beer—wait, had he?
“Find what?” Dean asked, his own voice sounding muffled to himself. The tilting of the world got more violent. Dean staggered to the side, catching himself on the wall by his shoulder. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.
“Dean? Dean!” His dad was shouting. He saw his dad’s flashlight disappear and a hand was waving in front of Dean’s face. “What’s going on here?”
“I don’t—” Something was dripping from his nose. “I don’t know. My head—”
Dean gritted his teeth and bowed over, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to alleviate the pain. God, it felt like his brain was inflating until it was too big for his head. He lifted his gun hand to his nose, wiping, and pulled back to see a dark stain on his hand. Was he bleeding?
It continued to drip down his face, slipping down his lips, and the longer he focused on it, the more light-headed he became. But the world calmed around him, the tilting growing less violent. The longer he stayed pressed against the wall, the more okay he was. If he just stayed there long enough…but they had a job to do, and his dad is right in front of him, watching his every move—he’d want Dean to get going.
Dean groaned, but pushed off the wall, straightening with only a few spots dancing before him. The heartbeat thumped away in his forehead, but he could see right.
“Take it easy,” his dad says. His dad says? Take it easy? He would never.
But Dean looks up and his dad’s face looks tight with tension. Wary. Wary of Dean. He’s not saying take it easy because Dean’s bleeding, he’s saying take it easy because something is wrong with him and Dad doesn’t know what. Dean knows that look.
“I’m okay,” he tries to insist. “I’m good. What’re…What’re we after, again?”
“Do you even know which end of your gun to point at a monster right now, Dean?” His dad demands, and it’s harsh, grating, like it always is. And that is more like Dad.
Dean blinks and it hurts a little bit to blink and his dad still hovers before him, but it’s his dad. He’s looking at him with that wary look and something in it is knowing. His dad isn’t trying to urge Dean to get out of the house, he isn’t glancing behind them, he isn’t looking for the monster or the ghost or whatever…he’s just looking at Dean. Like he knows something.
“Dad,” Dean grimaced again. He lifted his gun, this time, to dig the butt of it into his head—him being the only one with his flashlight still out. “Something messed with my head. What’s happening?”
“Shit,” John just swore quietly.
He left Dean there, going across the hall to sweep the room Dean had just come out of. Dean wasn’t hurt that he’d been left alone, but he raised his gun to point it down the dark hallway to watch his dad’s back. The urge to let himself fall back into the wall was strong, but he kept his feet steady beneath him.
John stepped back out of the room and gestured inside with his gun. “Hurry, Dean, back in.”
Dean frowned, but didn’t question it. He backed into the room, gun raised until his dad closed the door behind them. That door would be the only thing a monster could come through—but if it was a ghost, it wouldn’t matter. Dad didn’t have his duffle bag—had he not brought it? No, he must have dropped it off somewhere.
But Dad wasn’t going after the monster, now, stuck taking care of Dean, which meant he was worried, even if it didn’t show in his face. Dean had become a burden and he didn’t even know how or why.
“Go,” Dean told him, finding his back slumping against the wall across from the door. “Go kill it! Don’t worry about me, I’m good.”
“No, no you’re not,” his dad said. “And I don’t need to go anywhere. I’ve already found it.”
“What?” Dean looked around, as if the empty room would reveal anything else. “Where? What is it?”
His head pounded. His dad looked at him and his wariness shifted. There was something more, there—something like pain. Grief. That constipated, barely emotional look on his face that he got when he was six drinks in and thinking about Mom. With that look directed at Dean, a coil of dread curled in his gut.
“…Dad?”
“It’s you, son,” his dad said. “It’s in you, now.”
“Wha—?”
His migraine steamrolled over him like a freight train. Dean very nearly cried out, but managed to bite it down to a groan before having to embarrass himself in front of his father. His flashlight dropped, sending shadows dancing among the black spots in his vision. He curled against the wall, digging the butt of his gun into his forehead to try and relieve the pain. Something was so wrong.
In him? What the hell was in him?! He wanted to scream out of frustration and to vent out his pain. He dug his fingers into his scalp. His dad’s voice sounded far away and more concerned than he’d heard it since he’d been eight years old.
“How do I—” Dean growled against the throbbing. “How do we get it out? What do I do?!”
He didn’t even know what it was, for god’s sake!
“There’s only one thing to do.”
The wave of pain still pressed down, but less aggressively than before. Dean gained the upper hand enough to look up, to find his dad’s explanation, the way that he was going to save the day, and save Dean, again.
He only found his dad’s drawn in expression. If he didn’t know his dad so well, he’d even say he looked…sad. But he knew his dad better than that, so the twitching of his face had to come from something more akin to rage. His dad didn’t get sad, he just got angry. It was how he’d survived this life for so long while lugging two sorry ass kids behind him.
Even without the strange expression, his dad’s lack of response was telling. Dean heard what he seemed to be thinking crystal clear.
Panic and shame wrestled for dominance around his heart. Fear was what overwhelmed him, but only for a moment, before it was dashed. Dean had been afraid every day of his life. Fear had been like a fourth member of Dean’s small family, his small world. He’d learned to control it long ago.
But still, some of it slipped into his voice, when he quietly begged, “…Dad?”
“This thing has killed a lot of people, son,” his dad said, and his voice would be soft, if he wasn’t Dean’s dad. Still the reverence scared Dean more than anything. It was too close to gentle. “And it’s only tied down when it’s got a host. We’ve got to get rid of it before it can hurt someone else. Another mother, another nine-year-old girl. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Dean heard the words, but the processing part seemed to jumble up in his head. He stared at his dad, lips parted, slumped against the wall. His dad didn’t even try to reach out, didn’t hold him up, didn’t support him, not that Dean would expect that he would.
But automatic responses had been drilled into him for a very long time, so his mouth said, “Yes, sir.”
His head began to feel numb. There was fear there, in the back of his mind, but it drifted further and further away. If his dad said it had to be done, then it had to be done. His dad always dealt in absolutes—he was always absolutely thorough, absolutely knowing.
And if he was…If he was saying this…then it must be the last option. His dad wouldn’t even suggest it, even imply it, if he wasn’t completely, deadly sure.
“Do you?” His dad repeated.
Dean’s mouth felt dry. “Yes. Yes, sir. But, Dad, I…”
His hands were shaking. Somehow, he’d kept ahold of his gun, but his fingers still shook, even white around the ivory hilt.
I don’t want to die, he didn’t say. Because that was cowardly. That was selfish. His dad was here, telling him it was the only way, and his dad wouldn’t tell him that unless it was true because it was dad.
He felt thirteen again and having the Talk with his dad. But it wasn’t the talk that all the other boys his age got from their fathers. It was the Talk that only hunter boys his age must get. The Talk that told him that at any point in time, his life may abruptly end. On any hunt, it could go wrong, and he could die. And, like Dean always had, he’d nodded along with his dad’s words and said, Yes, sir.
“Okay,” Dean said. “Okay.”
He pushed against the wall to stand on his own two feet, lowering his gun. It was hard to lower—it was like there was a part of him fighting to bring it up to himself already.
Dean looked at his dad. “Do what you have to do.”
But his dad didn’t raise his gun, didn’t step any closer to Dean. His expression morphed into one that Dean had never seen on his dad’s face before. It looked unnatural, like someone else was suddenly standing before Dean, but it was just Dad.
“Don’t make me do it, son,” his dad quietly requested—because his dad didn’t beg. “Don’t you make me do it.”
For the first time, hid dad reached out, and Dean found himself flinching back. His dad’s fingers wrapped around Dean’s on the hilt of Dean’s gun. His dad’s hands were cold, ice cold, but so was the rest of the room. Goosebumps shot up across his skin again at the contact and it was wrong, but it was his dad.
It was his dad who lifted Dean’s arm until Dean was pressing the barrel of his gun to the underside of his own chin. His dad pressed up tight until it was hard to breathe and Dean felt a shot of fear through his spine—wondering if his dad was going to pull Dean’s trigger finger, too, before he withdrew. But his dad pulled back after that much was done.
Despite the lessening of pressure, Dean still felt like he couldn’t breathe, not with cold metal under his jaw.
The world was foggy. Dean felt wrong, like this was all a nightmare, but it was too real. His eyes began to burn. “Okay. Okay. But…But…Dad…I…I need to call him, first. Please. I—Just—Please, let me—Just give me two minutes.”
His dad’s face contorted. “Call?”
“Sammy,” Dean said quietly, the cold metal trailing down to the hollow of his throat as his weak arm lowered to that spot. “Sam. Dad…please.”
It felt like forever before his dad nodded silently. The world felt woozy. Dean scrambled to tug his phone from his pocket, his hand shaking worse. Why was he shaking so much? He couldn’t stop it. The flow of the blood over his lips hadn’t slowed. A dark puddle began to spread on the ground beneath his chin. It was splattered over his shirt. His dad didn’t even seem to notice.
Dean wanted to let go of his gun, only for a moment, but his hand didn’t seem to agree. He just clutched at it tighter. His eyes burned badly as he scrolled through his contacts with one hand.
Of all the ways he’d go out, he hadn’t ever imagined this. This was pathetic. This wasn’t who Dean had been raised to be. But he would save lives, this way. His dad would make sure of it—he always did. Dean didn’t know if Sam would understand, or even try to. But he couldn’t knowingly leave his brother with nothing. He couldn’t leave him like that. It was his job, before anything, to make sure he was okay. Dean had to make sure he’d be okay.
There were few contacts in his phone, anyway. Sam’s name burned on the screen, a lighthouse in a world slowly swirling around Dean as his migraine pounded away. Or the monster pulled at him harder and harder.
The phone rung a few times. Dean was scared now more than ever. Scared it would ring forever. But maybe he hoped that would happen. A message…A message would be the easiest.
Finally, the phone beeped. Dean let out a sigh of relief. Though he hadn’t even thought about what horrible voicemail he’d leave his little brother with.
But, then, “Dean?”
And baited breath. Dean’s heart stopped early. Sam had picked up.
“Sammy?” He asked doubtfully.
“You know I only kept your contact because you promised you’d only call if it was an emergency,” Sam said, frustration clear. His voice sounded a little deeper than Dean had last heard it, more than a year ago. “So this’d better be good or I’m hanging up.”
Hearing his voice made the pain more bearable. Suddenly, the pounding in his head mattered so much less, and the hazy world around him was kicked down the priority list. Sam was on the phone. Dean had so much he wanted to say to him…but looking into Dad’s impatient face, he knew he didn’t have much time.
“Hey, yeah, yeah, I mean—I’m sorry, I know.” Despite the situation, Dean couldn’t help the bittersweet smile that twisted his lips. Sam was on the phone. “I just—How’s school been? You got’a girl, yet?”
“What? School’s—it’s been fine—Are you drunk? I told you I’d block you if you drunk called me, Dean.”
“No, no, I’m not, hang on—I haven’t even had a beer today…probably.” All the right words clogged up Dean’s throat. He felt like choking, but swallowed it down. Dad hovered in front of him, still not touching him.
Some sort of force slammed into the other side of the door. Dean flinched into the wall as the door bowed inwards, but didn’t burst open. Dean might have croaked out a curse. His dad whipped around to glare at the door, his eyes flashing—and he turned back to Dean with urgency.
“It’s here, it’s trying to save itself!” Dad insisted. The door was slammed into again—Dean flinched again. Dad sounded like he was under water. Everything felt wrong. “We don’t have time for this, Dean! Hurry!”
“Just wait!” Dean told his dad. He’d go to hell before he admitted it, but tears were burning his eyes. “Sammy…are you okay? You’re livin’ okay, right? You got a roof and all?”
Slam!
“Wha…Yeah, I’m okay, I’m…Look, I’m happy, alright? But what the hell is going on? Why did you call me? Dean?”
“Good, that’s good…”
Dean didn’t even think about it, didn’t even try to move his arm, but he watched it raise up anyway. It was almost unnatural, almost like something else was doing it—but no, it was just him. The cold end of the barrel touched the underside of his chin once more. He could taste the metallic sting on his lips as his nose continued to bleed dark blood.
He had to do it. And it was okay, because it would make Dad safe, and Sam was okay. That was all that mattered. He just…He just wanted Sam to know…He didn’t want to die with his little brother thinking Dean didn’t love him.
“Just wanted to say goodbye,” Dean said. “’Cause I gotta go. But, uh…wanted to say ‘m sorry, too. ‘Cause when you left and dad said that crap to you…I didn’t defend you when I should’ve…and I really should’ve. But I didn’t want to lose both of you in one night.”
The tears he’d been fighting against began to burn their way through despite his attempt to keep them at bay. He blamed his inebriated state—and he flinched, again, because of that when the door shuddered. SLAM! His dad was yelling, now. Telling him to hurry, but Dean let the yelling drown out in favor of Sam’s voice.
“What do you mean ‘you gotta go’?” Dean could almost imagine concern in Sam’s voice, rather than annoyance. Almost. “Who’s yelling? Dean…”
“Oh, there’s a monster in me, and I gotta kill it,” Dean said distantly. The dark blood had begun slipping down his gun, making his fingers wet and sticky—light headed. The wall was the only thing keeping him upright. “Won’t make dad do it. Kill his own son—that just ain’t fair. He’s right, I gotta do it. Don’t…Don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I wasn’t gonna. I can’t shut my damn mouth for some reason.”
“Fuck,” Sam whispered. “Fuck. What are you—? Dean, do you hear yourself? You—You’re talking about killing yourself right now!”
“Dean,” his dad said, his voice hard. He stepped up closer to Dean, looming over him. “Time’s up. That damn thing’s gonna get through.”
SLAM!
Dean’s ears began to ring again. He stared at the door. If he focused, he could almost…he swore he heard his name being shouted from the other side of it.
“Yeah…” He said numbly. Into the phone, he mumbled, “Dad says time’s up. You know I love you, right, Sammy?”
When Sam spoke, his voice was as hard and commanding as Dad’s was. “I know, Dee. Listen to me right now. Whatever is telling you to do this—it isn’t Dad. Think about it—Why would dad make you do it yourself? Do you really think he would hesitate to do it if he thought it had to be done?”
Dean stared at the blurry figure of his dad quietly. No, he didn’t think his dad ever hesitated with anything…but this was Dean’s responsibility. Dean understood why his dad wanted him to do it, this time.
But for some reason, he found himself murmuring, “I don’t…I don’t know.”
At the same time, his thumb moved of it’s own accord, slowly sliding up the pearl hilt at his throat hollow. The pad of his thumb found the hammer and he slowly pulled it back—it clicked loudly, despite the slamming on the door, despite Dean’s own unsteady breathing.
Sam’s breath hitched and Dean thought maybe he had heard it, too.
“You know dad would never care about finishing a hunt if it cost your life!” Panic, now. Shit, Dean had made Sam worry. “God knows he’s a fucking hardass and he’s willing to make us do a lot of shit if he thinks it’s for the greater good, but he’d never—he wouldn’t do that to you! Do you hear me? Whatever this is, you’ve got to fight it!”
“Dean…” His dad growled.
Dean couldn’t breathe. SLAM! His finger was shaking over the trigger. SLAM!
“But Dad says…”
“Forget dad! Listen to me! For once in your life! I need you to be alive! I need to know you’re not dead to be happy! If that means I hunt you down and we figure some other way to get some monster out of you, then fine! If you kill yourself…If you kill yourself right now, I will never forgive you. Do you understand me? So just—fight it, damnit!”
SLAM! Dad glanced back at the door, then turned with an angry sneer on his face. It wasn’t an unusual expression, but the whiplash of his emotions caught Dean off guard.
It also caught him off guard when his dad lunged forward, slamming a hand into the wall beside Dean’s head, his other hand wrapping his fingers around Dean’s once more.
Dean gasped at the chill radiating off him—it was like icicles were holding his fingers in their grip, tightening his hold on the gun and shoving the barrel under his jaw hard. Dean’s head slammed against the wall behind him, the gun digging in hard enough it would leave a mark. His head spun.
Still, his dad didn’t pull the trigger. He shouted close to Dean’s face, spittle flying—his breath smelled like death. “DO IT!”
“Don’t, Dee, please,” Sam begged and, oh, there was a sob in his voice. “Don’t do this, don’t you take my brother away.”
“I can’t—” Tear streamed down his face. He whispered, “I can’t stop it. I’m sorry, Sammy, I’m sorry.”
“DEAN!”
“DEAN!”
The door finally crunched under the weight and flew off of it’s hinges.
A trigger was pulled. The blast caught Dean straight in the chest, buckshot cutting into his cheeks and stinging—and his dad exploded away, like a mirage. The frosty chill immediately left Dean and his headache poofed away, like the weight had been ripped from Dean’s head. He still saw stars at the new pain that burst in his chest with the salt rounds at such close proximity.
His dad rushed up to him as Dean slid down the wall, his overstressed body unable to hold him up any longer. He groaned in pain at the sting of the salt rounds. Unconsciousness tried to dig its way in, but he fought it, fought to blink the darkness from his vision, fought to focus on his dad—his real dad.
“Hey, hey,” his dad growled, crouching before him, his hand slapping at Dean’s cheek insistently. “You good? You with me?”
Foggy memories began to return to Dean—his dad’s brief, them walking into the house, Dean setting his shotgun down along the way. The shapeshifting ghost. The suicides they’d been investigating.
“Yeah,” Dean croaked. His mouth felt so much drier. He’d fucked up. And he was going to pass out. “No. Gonna…Gonna…Sam. Sammy.”
He tried to twist his grip into his dad’s jacket, but his dad was already up, already moving. Dean’s vision wavered, the pain in his chest, fuck, was bad, but at least he hadn’t blown his brains out with his baby brother on the phone. His fingers twitched, empty—his dad had taken Dean’s gun and shoved it in his waistband, and now his dad was holding Dean’s phone—speaking into it. Sammy.
Dean wanted to reach out, to demand it back, to remind his dad how he’d driven Sam away in the first place, how he didn’t deserve to talk to him—and that just proved how out of it he was, didn’t it? Dean, thinking that his dad didn’t deserve to talk to his son.
Then his dad was flipping the phone shut, hanging up, and he shoved it in his pocket. Dean wanted to speak, but no words came out when his lips parted. He was so tired. His head began to slump over. He was vaguely aware of his dad lifting him by the arm, dragging his useless ass down the hallway, and then Dean gave in to the darkness.
-
Sam chewed on what was left of his thumb nail. His leg was bouncing under him, the one not supporting the elbow that he leaned on, the only thing keeping him from bowing his head between his knees and throwing up. He’d stained the coffee table before him with a ring of brown because he hadn’t cared to clean it up when his caffeine had dripped over the side of the mug—he couldn’t even bring himself to stand up and take the damn thing to the sink. He was going to stain the inside of the mug, next.
But the only reason he noticed that much was because the mug happened to be sitting right next to his phone. It was flipped shut, face-up, ready to accept a call. Sam hadn’t felt this sick to his stomach, waiting on his phone, since…well, for a while. Probably not since the last time this exact same scenario had happened. That scenario being his dad hanging up on Sam while Sam didn’t know whether Dean was dead or alive.
He hadn’t even been there. He hadn’t been the one begging Dean to not kill himself. And, yet, he’d had the audacity to hang up on Sam, the audacity to tell him to ‘get ahold of himself’ because Sam was a human being who couldn’t help but cry after hearing a gunshot go off while on the phone with his suicidal brother. In that moment, Sam had hated his dad almost as much as he was scared for his brother.
“Hey.” A gentle hand landed on his shoulder, rubbing across his neck soothingly. “Still no word from your dad?”
Sam glanced up. He couldn’t even speak, not with his throat closed up—all he could do was give her this helpless look. He felt like a little kid again.
Jess’ expression crumpled and she leaned over the back of the couch to wrap her arms around Sam’s shoulders. He sniffled, reaching up to hold her arms back, letting his face be buried into the crook of her elbow. She rubbed her thumb in a circle on his shoulder, the love he felt from that simple hug almost overwhelming him again.
“It’ll be okay,” Jess promised softly. “I’m sure he’s okay. I mean, I didn’t even know you had a brother until…I’ve still got to meet him, you know.”
Sam nodded against her arm, unwilling to let go just yet. If she hadn’t walked in after Dad had hung up on Sam…Sam didn’t know what he would have done. He wasn’t exactly proud for his girlfriend of a few months to find him sobbing into his hands, and he definitely wasn’t proud of the way his voice broke as he’d told her that his brother had called him with a gun under his chin, but it had happened. For once, Sam hadn’t come up with some other story to replace the monster involved. He hadn’t needed to.
“He’s kind of an idiot, though,” Sam croaked out. Jess’ arm muffled his voice. “He’d probably try to flirt with you.”
He could feel her smile against his hair and he didn’t want to know how sad that smile was. “I think I’ll trust you to wrangle him in. He’s…He’s important to you, isn’t he?”
Sam didn’t respond. Couldn’t. He didn’t know how to explain it. It was complicated. He didn’t know how to say that, yes, Dean was the most important person in his life, but also if he was around, Sam wouldn’t be able to stand it. How could he explain that if Dean died, Sam would die, but Sam also didn’t want Dean anywhere near him? How could he explain that it wasn’t even Dean’s fault, but Sam knew he’d always be in the center of everything Sam hated about his life?
So, Sam just nodded.
Jess pressed a kiss into his hair and tugged her arms back to detangle. Sam begrudgingly let her go, feeling emptier after she pulled away. She circled the couch to pick up the stained mug and Sam’s elbow sat on his leg again, and his thumb nail was between his teeth. He stared at the phone. It didn’t buzz, as much as he willed it to. There was quiet tink tink tinks from the kitchen as Jess moved things around.
She came back and placed a new mug in front of him, this one with more coffee—more brown than black, with the creamer and the sugar that Jess knew he liked. She ran a wet rag over the coffee table—and circular stain disappeared. She didn’t disturb the phone.
The couch dipped next to him as she sat down, not wasting a second before wrapping an around around his waist. He leaned into the touch, his body against hers.
“Why didn’t you tell me about him?” She asked, all gentle curiosity, all soft edges.
She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tugged. He pulled his thumb from his mouth, guilty. Her face was open, beautiful. He’d never wanted her to know. He’d never wanted his two words colliding. Jess belonged in his world of school and friends and parties and studying—the world that held his future. He’d never wanted the world that had been his past to corrupt that.
But it could it have lasted forever? Sam had thought so, he’d been confident, even, but…was that what he wanted? His dad, well, his dad could rot in his past, for all Sam cared. He was okay with that old man dying the day he told Sam to never come back. He was okay with leaving him behind in his world of monsters.
But…Dean. Sam had never wanted to leave Dean behind. They were just…They were just too different to stay in each others lives when Sam had left. But…when Sam imagined himself getting married, he imagined Dean there, standing at his side. When he imagined himself having kids, raising them right, he imagined them being friends with Dean’s little rugrats. He…He’d always meant to pull Dean along with him, once everything was settled, once the pain of that night had dulled, once Dean got his head out of his ass.
Still, this felt too soon for those worlds to collide, even if it was just Dean and Jess.
“He…” Sam sighed. Get it together. “His name’s Dean. He’s my older brother. He…Our dad isn’t a good guy. He dragged us from motel to motel my entire childhood, we never really had a home. I guess after my mom died when I was a baby, he just couldn’t handle it. He’d leave us by ourselves for weeks at a time, get in trouble with the cops, come home drunk off his ass, that kind of thing. I bet he wished he never had any kids, the way he treated us. But…Dean always took care of me. Acted like the parent I never had. It wasn’t fair…none of it was.”
Jess hummed, squeezing his wrist. “That…That sounds really hard. I’m…sorry that ever happened. You deserve more than that. You both did.”
Sam huffed without amusement. “I don’t think Dean ever even thought about it. Dad always told him ‘be grateful’ and Dean listened. Me and dad would get into these screaming matches when I got a little older, but Dean’d always get between us. I…I still don’t really understand why he loved our dad so much when I couldn’t stand him. I mean, I guess I love him too, but only because he’s my dad, you know? But I never liked him a day in my life.”
Jess let go of his wrist to reach over and cup his cheek. Sam let her pull his face up to look at her. Her eyes were sad, her smile was sad, but there was graciousness in there. Like she was proud and not pitying of the pathetic story Sam was telling her.
“Hey, I know how complicated family can be.” She did. She didn’t talk to her parents, either, Sam knew. “But look where you are now. You’re going to Stanford. You’ve got a full ride here, you know how hard that is to get? And you got it because, despite all of that, you worked so hard. You earned it. Your dad doesn’t get a say anymore. It’s your life.”
“I know. I know, but…I think maybe he does still have a say,” Sam grimaced, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He pressed his hand to Jess’, trying not to cry, like he was nine again. His voice sounded weak. “Jess, my brother was trying to kill himself because he thought my dad wanted him to. He told me that.”
Jess sucked in a breath and didn’t respond. Sam didn’t want to look up to see the look on her face because he was afraid that tears would well up again and he didn’t want to cry anymore. He’d cried enough, he’d been enough of a baby. And if he got the phone call and his dad said that Dean was…that he’d…
Jess hugged Sam tighter and he wrapped an arm around her to return the favor, burying his face into her warm shoulder. She thought his dad was a monster now, Sam knew. He couldn’t bother to correct it, even thought he knew that wasn’t true. His dad wasn’t a monster. Sam had seen too many monsters to put his dad in that category. But that didn’t mean Sam hated him, blamed him, any less. And it didn’t change the fact that if Dad asked Dean to kill himself, Sam knew he would. And he maybe already had.
Sam choked up at the thought and Jess stroked a hand through his hair.
“That’s really messed up,” Jess whispered. Sam didn’t know if she was talking to herself or to him.
Sam knew it was more complicated than that. Something had been messing with Dean’s head, he hadn’t been in his right mind, but…somehow, he knew it wouldn’t have made a difference.
“I hate it, Jess, I hate it so much,” Sam said into her shoulder, clutching on like a lifeline. His eyes burned with unshed tears. “I hate how much control Dad has over him. I hate that I feel like my own brother can’t be in my life because of it. God, it makes me want to just—”
Sam didn’t know. He wanted to punch something, he wanted to scream, he wanted to grab Dean and shake him until logic was knocked loose, until he finally listened to Sam when Sam begged him to live his own life, live a life that would make him happy, finally chose Sam instead of playing the damn middle.
“I know.” Jess kissed his head again. “I know. It’s going to be okay.”
You don’t know that, he didn’t say. You don’t know anything. You don’t even know me.
But Jess kept holding Sam. Sam, who had killed people by the time he’d entered high school, Sam who slept with a shotgun under their bed, Sam who knew things about the world that could kill her. And still, she held him like he was something precious while he waited to hear whether Dean had lived or died.
The phone didn’t ring all day. Jess pulled Sam’s sorry ass off of their couch to help her make dinner and she played her favorite album on their small radio. She didn’t dance, she didn’t sing, but he kept bumping her hip into Sam’s and giving him small smiles and putting things into his hands to give him something to do. And, god, Sam loved her so much for it, and he hated that he couldn’t return her love, his mind too occupied with thoughts of his stupid big brother.
Mostly how Dean hadn’t let Sam help cook for the longest time. Too busy slapping Sam’s small hands away from the hot plates, catching things his toddler fingers had fumbled, shooing him away from dad’s drinks on the counters that mingled with the salt and pepper. The dumb things Dean had put in front of Sam that Sam hadn’t even questioned before eating. Butter sandwiches? A classic favorite, and apparently an embarrassment at school. Sam had loved those stupid butter sandwiches until he’d turned nine and his teacher had told them they weren’t good for meals and he’d whined and whined at Dean for trying to feed them to him.
If he was dead…What would Sam do if he was dead? Keep living his life, sure, but…He felt sick thinking about it. He’d wanted out, he’d wanted away from their life so bad, but he’d never meant this.
Finally, Sam was put out of his waiting misery when the phone began to buzz on the table. He all but vaulted out of the kitchen, lunging for the phone—he flipped it open without glancing at the contact. “Dean?!”
“It’s me,” a gruff voice responded. Too gruff, too low, too detatched.
“Dad.” Sam’s heart plummeted. Jess rushed into the room after him, but Sam couldn’t look up from where the stain had been on the table. “Where is he?”
“He’s right here. He’s fine. You did good—he’d have gotten himself killed without you.”
Sam couldn’t care less about his dad’s praise. In fact, it made him even angrier. Because if Dean had died, there would be no one to blame but this damned old man.
Rather than dignifying Dad with a response, Sam growled, “Put him on the phone.”
“No, Sam. He’s alive. Now go back to your life and we’ll go back to ours.”
“PUT HIM—!” Sam took a deep, shuddering breath, failing to suppress his rage. He bowed his head so that he didn’t have to see Jess in his peripherals. “Put him on the damn phone or I swear to god, dad, I’ll put you on the FBI’s most wanted by tomorrow. You know I will. Give him the fucking phone.”
For a long moment, Sam only heard his dad’s carefully measured breaths. They were careful in the way that Sam had long memorized—when his dad was holding words back.
Then, shuffling, and muffled words. The breathing disappeared, only to be replaced with—
“Hey, shortstack. You can untwist your panties, now.”
Sam sighed, long and hard, before letting himself fall back bonelessly against the couch. He ran his free hand through his hair—Jess smiled with relief when something in Sam’s wide, teary eyes told her the good news.
“I’m taller than you,” was the first thing Sam grumbled back, trying to ignore how choked up he felt. “You can’t call me that anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean laughed, and Sam could have been imagining it, but it seemed like there was relief, there, too. “I’d say it’s good to hear your voice, but you sound even nerdier than you did the last time I saw you. Did’ya manage to make all your chest hairs fall out already, college boy?”
Sam snorted. “Do you still shave your chest hair weekly?”
“…Touché. You win this round.”
“Whatever.” Sam wasn’t going to call him out about how exhausted he sounded. Not after going no contact for more than a year, only to get what might be the worst call of his life. “…Are you okay?”
“Can confirm that I am in one piece. Aw, it’s adorable when you get all worried.”
“Yeah, well,” Sam scoffed, unable to keep his bitterness down. “That’s what happens when you get a call from your brother with a gun in his mouth.”
“Hey, I’m classier than that! It was under my chin.”
“Dean!” Sam snapped. “This isn’t a joke. When I heard the gun go off, I thought—I—”
He was back to wanting to punch something. His brother had once joked that Dean had gotten their Dad’s luck with the ladies while Sam had gotten his anger issues. Sam had shoved Dean half-heartedly, but his brother had no way of knowing how often Sam thought about that. Like he did now, in order to relax the fist he’d been making.
“I know, kid, I know,” Dean said and, for the first time in a year, his tone was serious. “I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry I put you on the spot like that. It was fucked up. And I know I promised I’d only call if it was an emergency, but—don’t block me, yet, alright?”
“I’m not mad that you called me,” Sam choked. “I’m not mad.”
“Well, you sound pretty pissed, so…”
“I was scared, you jerk! I thought you were dead. And I’m not gonna block you—you’re dumber than you look if you think this didn’t count as an emergency.”
“I’ve gotten prettier since the last time you saw me, so at least the bar’s pretty high for my looks.”
There was a snort on the other side that didn’t seem to be Dean. The reminder that Dad was still in the room soured Sam’s mood.
“But I am sorry, Sammy,” Dean repeated. And three apologies…Dean was more shaken up than he was leading on. But then again, that’s how it always was. “Really. And I’m glad you’re doing okay.”
Sam graciously ignored the bitter notes in his brother’s voice. He wasn’t going to turn any of this into a fight, not as long as his dad stayed off the phone.
“You don’t need to tell me you’re sorry,” Sam sighed. “Just tell me that you’re okay, too.”
He could almost hear Dean’s grin. “’Course I am. Just one nasty poltergeist of some dead witch. Knew how to do all kinds of crazy crap to your head. But dad had my back on this one. We’re good.”
“You—” Sam glanced at Jess. She cocked her head, as if to ask ‘What?’ “He’s got your back on every hunt, doesn’t he? He’s…You haven’t been hunting alone, right?”
“I’m twenty-three, not twelve, dude,” Dean scoffed. “If there’s anyone to worry about ‘cause he’s on his lonesome, it’s your scrawny ass. You ain’t even in your double digits, yet.”
“I’m nineteen.”
“It doesn’t count ‘til you’re to the twenties, numb nuts.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Alright, you’re fine. I think we’re done here.”
“I—” Dean quieted at Sam’s words. “Yeah, okay. School’s…School’s good, right?”
“…Yeah,” Sam smiled. “School’s good. I’m good. My, uh…My girlfriend said she’d like to meet you, one day.”
“Girlfriend?” Dean whistled over the phone. Sam huffed. “I knew you had a sly dog in you somewhere. She hot?”
Sam glanced over at Jess with what he hoped was a long-suffering expression of a tired man. Jess just covered her mouth and laughed a little at his weariness.
“Yes, and she’s taken—what is wrong with you?” Sam groaned. He couldn’t believe he’d almost let himself forget that Dean was actually an asshole. Had Sam stooped low enough to miss him that much? Man, his dad was right after all—Sam was both hopeless and pathetic. “I take it back—you don’t get to meet her. And I’m hanging up, now.”
“Oh, c’mon, don’t be like that—I’ll stop, I’ll stop,” Dean laughed again. “I’m sure she’s great. Bet she keeps you from brooding in your free time.”
“Bye, Dean.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, you hear? And call me if something happens. And Sam?”
Sam humored him. “Yes, mom?”
“…I know I was half outta my mind, but…I meant what I said. About…you know. When you left.”
Sam’s smile turned sad. “I know, man. And I love you, too.”
Dean grumbled on the other line. Probably embarrassed to come close to anything like emotions while in front of Dad. His older brother’s fragile masculinity knew no bounds. But Sam knew him well enough that it didn’t bother him.
The line shifted. He heard Dean’s voice, muffled again, without understanding the words.
Then, Dad was back on the line. “Sam—”
Sam flipped the phone shut. He couldn’t spare any care for what John Winchester would have to say.
Jess was beaming at him when he went to put the phone down.
“Everything’s okay?”
Sam suppressed a sigh and nodded. “Yeah. Everything’s fine, now.”