in which imogenbynight rewatches supernatural for the zillionth time, and attempts to write a coda or missing scene fic for every single episode wordcounts + ratings + content will vary | multi-ship | eventual dean/cas & sam/eileen
The Coda ProjectĀ |Ā 1.05Ā Sinking in the Quicksand
Dean knows Sam noticed his eyes bleeding when they were fighting Bloody Mary, but Sam hasn't asked why. Dean spirals as he wonders what that means.
Toledo is three hours in the rear view, and Dean still has dried blood flaking at the edges of his fingernails. Itching under his collar.
He desperately needs a shower, but getting out of town before more cops arrived at the trashed antique store was a whole lot higher on the priorities list than stopping to wash up, and he'd had to settle for wiping the worst of it from his face with an ancient KFC wet wipe and a wad of napkins as he'd steered the car toward the interstate with his other hand. He's been fantasizing about hot water and a fresh change of clothes ever since. Now, as he glances down at the dashboard, he silently thanks his baby for the excuse that her near-empty fuel tank is giving him.
"Almost outta gas," he says aloud when he takes the next exit ramp, and in his periphery he sees Sam flinch at the sound of his voice. "You mind filling the tank while I hit the head?"
"Yeah, sure."
It's the first time either of them have spoken in hours.
The Coda Project | 1.04Ā Fighting the Fear of Fear
Deanās been anticipating his own death since he was four years old. He's been training himself to be ready for it since he was seven. More or less resigned to its inevitability since some unknown point in between. He's learned to live with it.
When Dean was four years old, a cardinal collided with his bedroom window.
Cracks spiderwebbed outward from the place it struck, and his mom, who'd been sitting in her rocking chair reading The Together Book aloud, had jumped so hard at the sound that she'd torn a page.
The bird had been singing until it hit the glass. Had been swooping back and forth in the afternoon sun and letting out the high, musical trills that Dean liked to imitate whenever he was playing in the garden. But Dean couldn't hear the song anymore. Just the sound of the breeze in the trees and the excited barking of the dog next door.
Within seconds, he'd been on his feet and running downstairs to see if the bird was okay, ignoring his mom calling out to him. By the time she'd caught up--moving in a slow shuffle thanks to the added weight of Dean's baby brother who was due any day now--it was too late. Dean was already in the living room, ducking under the gauzy curtains to press his face to the glass.
"Don't look," Mary called out, but he'd already seen.
Even from inside the house he could tell that the cardinal wasnāt moving.
Itās brilliant red wing was bent sideways beneath its tiny body. Black eyes glassy and unblinking.
"I think he needs a helper," Dean told his mom, and she had pulled him away from the window.
"My sweet Dean," she'd said through a watery smile, cupping his face in her palm. "You are such a good helper, but sometimes there isn't anything we can do except say goodbye."
He'd learned, then, what it was to die.
A few months later, with the heat of fire on the back of his neck, and baby Sam clutched tightly to his chest, and his heart racing at the sight of his dad looking scared for the first time in Dean's short memory, heād learned that death wasnāt just something that came for wayward birds.
That's when it started. The anticipation. Knowing that someday, it would be him that death would come for. Or Dad. Or Sam.
He'd carried the fear quietly at first, knowing that if he seemed scared, Sammy would get scared. Dad didn't know how to make him stop crying the way Mom did, so it was up to Dean to be the strong one. The brave one.
Being afraid meant failing Sam, so he hid his fear away. Held it the way his mom had held the cardinal; its limp body cradled in a hand towel as she'd carried it down to the corner of the garden to bury among the yellow columbines. He held it gently. Held it as though one wrong move might somehow make it worse.
When he was seven years old, Dean held his first gun the same way.
It was late spring, hotter than it should've been, and Dad had left Sam with Pastor Jim to bring Dean out to an abandoned farm on the outskirts of Blue Earth, Minnesota. They'd parked outside a rusted gate near the mouth of the driveway, and Dean scraped his palms on the rough metal as he climbed over it. Twisted his ankle when he dropped down onto the hard-packed earth on the other side. It hurt, but he didn't cry. He knew not to.
In his hand, he carried a plastic grocery bag that reeked of stale beer, and the empty bottles inside clinked together with each step he took. He'd been careful not to swing it too much as they'd made their way across the overgrown front yard, through tall, scratchy grass. Through patches of dandelions that he wasn't supposed to pick, no matter how much he wanted to.
When they finally reached the house and barn, John had directed him around the back and past a sagging wooden fence that separated the small backyard from the fields beyond. He'd lined up the bottles along the middle rung of the fence to put them within Dean's eyeline, and facing the barn, he'd pushed the rifle into Dean's hands.
The Ruger was heavier than it looked. Long and cold and difficult for Dean to balance until John had directed him on how to center its weight. He'd been scared, holding it. Scared that if he tried to do as Dad told him and missed the bottles, the bullet could hit one of the birds he could see nesting in the eaves of the empty barn. That if he did as he was told, he could end up being the thing that brought death to something else. Someone else.
But Dad had given him an order. Had told him that this was how he'd be able to protect his brother. So he'd swallowed his fear, and lifted the gun until he could line up the sight. Pushed his fear down and told himself that he had to get it right. Did as he was told. Slowly exhaled as he squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice. Five times.
He hit every bottle, each one exploding outward in a burst of brown glass, and when he looked up at his dad it was the first time Dean had ever seen him proud.
"That's my man," he'd said, and clapped Dean firmly on the back as he took the gun and slung it over his own shoulder. "Now you can keep your brother safe when I'm not around to help you."
It had been equal parts gratifying and awful to hear. Knowing that Dad thought he was grown up enough to be trusted felt good. Knowing that sometime soon, he might be the one thing between Sam and the looming threat of death felt like having the floor pulled out from under him.
When he was sixteen, a few months before he gave up on high school for good, Dean had an English teacher who made the class discuss their hopes for the future.
They'd gone around the room one by one, each student listing out their plans and dreams and lofty goals, and when it had come to Dean he'd been honest. He'd said that he didn't think about it. That as far as he saw it, he could die any day. Any minute. Any second, his time could come, and he'd be done, and he didn't want to waste even a moment of what little time he might have with something as pointless as planning.
He didn't mention that he used to have plans. Dreams. Lofty goals.
Didn't mention that when he was just a little bit younger, he'd wanted to be a mechanic, maybe. A firefighter. A rockstar. Someone who fixes things or creates things that make people happy; someone who helps. Talking about it, the few times he had, made him feel like he was being a bad son. A bad brother. Like wanting something for himself was the same as neglecting his responsibilities.
So he'd learned to push all of that down, too. Compressed it into a tight ball in his chest until it collapsed in on itself like a black hole; something that he couldn't really look inside, but could always feed into.
The teacher had pulled him aside after class to discuss his nihilistic attitude, but even then, Dean had thought there was a pretty big difference between being aware of the futility of planning for a future he wouldn't have, and being defeated by it, but he hadn't bothered to argue. He hadn't seen the point.
(He had seen the irony in that, though--and fuck anyone who thought he didn't.)
Now, twenty-six years old and in his prime, he still feels it.
The fear is like a chronic condition his body has acclimated to. He's readjusted his baseline tolerance, so that despite the fact that it's always there under his skin, hovering at the back of his neck like a phantom hand waiting to catch hold of him at any moment, he's able to mentally separate himself from it enough to get by.
When it's a good day, he can ignore it. When it's a bad day, when the threat of death is tangible and immediate--a werewolf slashing at his chest with jagged claws, a ghost pressing icy fingers beyond the surface of his skin to crush his windpipe--the fear becomes fuel. Oxygen to feed the fire in his belly. It sharpens his focus. Gives him the edge he needs to wrestle some kind of control back from the void that's trying to claim him. And so long as he can fight it, tooth and nail, it's okay. Even if he fails. Even if he dies.
Death comes for everyone sometime, and if he's gotta go down, he's gonna be damn sure he goes down swinging.
Thisā¦
This is not that.
Right now, the threat of death is tangible and immediate, but it's not something he can control in the slightest. There's nowhere for him to channel his fear. Nothing to fight against but the threat of gravity and forty-thousand feet of open air.
The plane banks hard to the right, forcing his side against the arm rest as the engines roar, and Dean falters in his quiet repetition of Metallicaās Some Kind of Monster for just long enough that his brain supplies him with a torrent of horrific scenarios he has absolutely no hope of preventing.
A flock of birds sucked into the engine. A freak storm. A crack in the fuselage that none of the safety technicians caught during their inspection, catching the wind and peeling the plane like an orange.
Another plane on a collision path, with the air traffic controller succumbing to the relentless stress of their job and breaking down for just long enough that the pilots have no chance at correcting course.
Outside, the clouds are thick and dark, whipping past the window at a pace, and Dean can't help but think of restless spirits. Fuck, who knows what is out there. They deal with so much shit on the surface of the Earth--where they're supposed to be--that he figures there are probably hundreds of things up here that nobody's even begun to figure out how to fight.
Not to mention the demon he knows is somewhere on board.
Because it's not enough to be trapped in a flying metal death tube--the universe might as well throw in something several notches above his pay grade as well. Just for the hell of it.
If Sam tells him to breathe one more time, Deanās going to kill him before this plane can.
"Breathe," Sam tells him.
"Choke," Dean replies.
Sam has the audacity to look affronted.
Several hours later, after the demon has been exorcized and the plane is back on solid ground, Dean feels a little like he might pass out. His limbs are loose and tingly. His chest is tight. His stomach churning. His fear has shifted back into its usual holding pattern, but he can still feel sharp edges where it's usually dulled.
He needs to do something. Needs to wrestle back some scrap of control to feel like he's in charge of his own body again.
Suddenly, the fact that they're a sixteen hour drive away from the Impala is all he can think about.
"I'm guessing you don't wanna fly back to Indianapolis?" Sam asks as they make their way through the throngs of travelers at Denver airport, and Dean just levels him with an exhausted stare. "Yeah, stupid question. I'll get us a car."
Dean lets him go, wandering over to the nearest wall and sinking down onto his haunches to sit against it. To breathe. While he waits, he finds himself staring at a sparrow flitting around near the ceiling. Watching the way it swoops and dives over the bustling crowd, searching for a way out. It's probably safer where it is, trapped in the terminal and away from the elements. Free from the threat of predators and planes.
Dean watches it and wonders what it must be like, to be so unaware. To live without fear. He doesn't know if it's better or worse than knowing; if a lack of control is easier to bear if you don't understand the consequences.
As soon as Sam returns with a set of keys, Dean stands and makes a grab for them. Sam yanks them out of reach before he can make contact.
"Dude, what the hell?"
"C'mon, hand 'em over."
"You still kinda look like you're gonna puke."
"Already did in the plane bathroom," Dean tells him, ignoring the wrinkled nose he gets in response. "And driving calms me down."
"It's a long ass drive."
"No shit. I'm not planning on pulling the whole sixteen hours in one go. C'mon, just let me take the first leg."
Sam squints, lips pursed tight, then relents with a sigh.
"Fine." He hands Dean the keys. Even just having them in his hand is grounding.
"What'd you get us, anyway?"
"A car," Sam answers, and heads off toward the door without another word.
"A car," Dean mocks, and follows.
Together, they pick their way through rows of sedans until Sam finally announces that they've reached their rental, and Dean blinks a few times as he looks at the thing Sam is pointing him toward. A bland white paint job. A generic round bumper. An utter lack of soul. He stares at it in disgust.
"What the fuck is this?"
"It's an Impala," Sam says.
"It's a crime."
"It's the 2001 model," Sam adds, and Dean doesn't have to look at him to know he's biting back a smirk. "Apparently it has cup holders."
Despite the car being one of the most offensive things he's ever seen, sinking behind the wheel makes the last of Dean's frayed nerves settle. His chest loosens. His hands feel like his own. With a slow exhale, he turns the ignition and gets them on the road. The drive back to Indianapolis stretches out ahead of him, a long, familiar stretch of blacktop and open plains, and while he can't anticipate every part of the journey, he's prepared for it.
His fear is a silent passenger in the back seat. He carries it carefully across state lines.
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The Coda Project | 1.03 - The Ground Thatās Been Won
You can never really know your parents.
A little after eleven, when Sam's stomach starts rumbling loud enough to be heard over the driving guitar of Alice Cooper's School's Out, Dean starts looking for somewhere to stop for lunch.
They haven't really talked since they left Lake Manitoc. While Sam is firmly in tunnel-vision mode--reading something on his PalmPilot with his body curved toward the door as he taps the stylus intermittently on the screen--Dean's been stuck in his own head. Thinking in circles. Thinking about that first day of the hunt.
About how Sam had said you don't even like kids with such conviction that Dean hadn't known how to deny it.
The words had stung more than Dean would've expected them to. Still sting now, three days later. Make him wonder, again and again as he drives them south toward Illinois, whether Sam really is this clueless about who Dean is. If Dean has hidden himself this well. If Sam is even more similar to their dad than Dean realized.
After all, it's the same thing John would've said. Has said, a few times now, if not in so many words. Assuming that Dean's only reason for treating a kid--or anyone else--with kindness could be as a means to get into the pants of whichever available woman might be paying attention.
What kind of asshole does he think I am? he wonders, not for the first time since they pulled away from the gas station. Is that really how he sees me?
He knows that playing up the womanizer act around John for so long means Sam caught the show as well, but God--couldn't he tell? Doesn't he know Dean well enough to know that he's more than that? Better than that?
You don't even like kids.
As though Dean didn't raise Sam himself. As though Dean didn't give up what tiny sliver of childhood he could've held onto for himself in order to make sure Sam got a bigger share. Does he not remember, or did he just never realize? Dean can't tell which possibility is worse, and either way, he doesn't know how to talk about it without feeling like he's demanding a kind of praise he doesn't truly deserve.
Beside him, Sam lets out a loud sigh as he taps on his screen. Alice Cooper fades out. Queen fades in.Ā Dean reaches over and turns up the volume.
The rest stop he pulls into half an hour later isn't exactly inviting. The asphalt is cracked, and the grass is knee-high and weedy. The crumbling public restroom beyond the parking lot looks like little more than an interesting place to catch a disease, but there's a nice patch of dappled shade under the trees on the side closest to the road, and thanks to the direction of the breeze, the noise from the sparse traffic is muffled enough to ignore.
He parks under the low-hanging branches of an oak tree. Sam looks up like he's only just realized they've stopped moving when the radio clicks off and drops them into silence.
"Lunch?" he asks.
"Mm," Dean replies, and climbs out into the November sun. Pulls the plate of sandwiches and cookies and fruit Lucas had given them from its place in the back seat, and heads around to the front of the car to sit on the hood.
Sam takes a minute to join him, stretching his long-limbed frame as he emerges from the Impala.
Beneath them, the engine ticks quietly as it cools.
"You think they'll be okay?" Sam asks after a few minutes, and Dean looks over at him. He's picking a slice of tomato out of his sandwich to eat it separately. Dean still remembers the year when Sam suddenly refused to eat them at all--when he'd been nine years old and adamant that he'd never liked tomatoes and never would in the future. Dean had been stuck dealing with the fallout when John found out he'd been throwing away perfectly good food.
"Who? Andrea and Lucas?"
"Yeah," Sam nods, and wipes the tomato juice off his fingers onto the hood of the car.
"Dude."
"What?"
Dean gestures at the stack of paper napkins wedged under the plate, and Sam rolls his eyes. He pulls one out to smear over the hood. Little bits of paper catch and break off, pilling on the damp metal. Dean purses his lips and mentally adds drive through car-wash to the day's agenda before he shifts his focus back to Sam's question.
It's really anyone's guess how Andrea is gonna deal. She'd seemed more or less okay when they'd left town, but that doesn't mean much. They don't really know her, after all. He's got no clue how well adjusted she is; how adept she is at dealing with trauma. What her tells are.
Lucas, on the other hand... Dean thinks he's going to be okay. He's young enough to bounce back, and the fact that he'd been talking this morning makes Dean think he's got a good shot at normalcy.
"Andrea told me she was going to try and focus on how her dad was with her and Lucas," Sam goes on. "But I dunno. It must be hard, finding out your parent isn't who you thought they were."
Dean raises his brow at Sam treating it like a hypothetical; like they're not both living proof of people coping with the insane shit their parents do. Sure, John Winchester might not be out there covering up murders--or, not technically, anyway--but he sure as hell has done some shady shit in the name of hunting down yellow eyes.
Then again, maybe it's different if you learn how messed up your parents are later in life.
Maybe it's worse if the illusion is shattered after it's had so much time to feel like the truth.
"Yeah," Dean says, noncommittal, and takes another bite of his sandwich.
"I guess you never really know your parents, is all."
Something about Sam saying that tugs at Dean's gut the same way that his you don't like kids comment did. Makes the mouthful of ham and cheese and bread go gluey and awful in Dean's mouth. When he swallows, it goes down wrong. Slides in a hard, uncomfortable lump the whole way down.
"Yeah," Dean says again. "I guess not."
They fall silent again, and Dean tries not to dwell on childhoods lost and shitty fathers; on how, without realizing it, he threw away his chance at brotherhood in exchange for being a parent before he truly knew what that meant. On how Sam doesn't know him. How Sam will never know him. Not the way he should.
He finishes his sandwich. Grabs two oversized chocolate chip cookies and barely tastes them. It all sits heavy in his stomach with a low-grade dread he can't quite name, and he decides that it's better if he accepts it. This is it. This is his life.
By the time he's done eating, Sam has his nose in his PDA again.
"What is there, porn on that thing?" Dean asks, though he feels the joke landing flat even before he's finished saying it. Sam looks up sharply, fumbling the screen's off switch. Dean lifts his brow at the guilty look on his face. He wasn't serious, but now he's seriously wondering if PalmPilots can display photos.
He's definitely not expecting the answer he gets.
"I, um. Saved some old emails from Jess. From back when we first started talking."
"Oh," Dean hesitates. He's been waiting for Sam to talk about Jess since they left Palo Alto--for him to say something, anything beyond the fact that he's determined to find whatever is responsible for her death. Now that the moment has arrived, he doesn't know how to navigate it.
"I know it's probably stupid, but... I dunno. I keep worrying that I'm gonna forget things. Like, the way she talked, or the stuff she'd laugh at..." Sam shrugs. "It's not like there's a lot in the messages--they're mostly just planning study sessions and arguing about The West Wing. But reading them makes it easier to remember her, y'know?"
"Yeah, man. It actually... that kinda reminds me of something Dad did, back when we were kids."
"What?"
"I mean, they're not in there anymore--I think he ripped them out and keeps them in his wallet--but for a while... There used to be a few pages at the front of his journal with little notes about Mom. You don't remember that?"
Sam shakes his head.
"It was just small stuff. How she took her coffee. Her favorite Stones song. The name of that perfume she always wore," his mouth quirks up to one side in a sad smile. The perfume was called Charlie. Every now and then, Dean catches a whiff of it when they're interviewing a witness or walking along the sidewalk, and he'll remember being small enough to tuck his face into his mother's neck, her long hair tickling his cheeks as she hummed along with a record. "I don't know if doing it really helped him much, but..."
"Yeah. Can't hurt, though, right?"
"Right," Dean agrees, though he's not sure if he really believes it. John hoarded his memories of Mary for the most part. Tucked them into the journal in scratched out, barely comprehensible notes, and refused to talk about her with anyone. Dean still remembers the last time he tried, and how for three days after, John had sucked up all the oxygen of their motel room like a barely contained scream. Still, maybe it'll be different for Sam. Maybe Dean can ask him what Jess was interested in, how they met, what their lives looked like before Dean showed up. All he knows about her at this point is that she liked the Smurfs, and he's not about to bring that up. "What was she--"
"Are you ready to hit the road again?" Sam cuts him off before he can get the sentence out, and the dismissal stings worse than the comment about Dean not liking kids. Reminds Dean so much of John that his chest aches.
But it's not about him, he reminds himself. Sam is processing. Grieving. He's gotta come first.
He pushes the ache down. Slaps on a grin.
"Yeah," he says, and squints toward the road. "C'mon. I think we can get to St Louis by sundown."
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After reuniting Tommy Collins with his family, Dean and Sam stop for the night in a town called Rifle.
Theyāre about two hours out of Blackwater Ridge, at a dumpy motel on the edge of a town called Rifle, and Deanās been staring at the tree-print wallpaper for so long that heās started detecting patterns in the branches.
A cheap plug-in air freshener in the bathroom has the whole place reeking of artificial pine. Between that and the walls, Deanās starting to feel as though the wilderness they just barely managed to escape from has followed them here. Hell, maybe they didnāt escape. Maybe heās still strung up in the mine; maybe the wendigo is still tossing him around like a ragdoll, scrambling his brains just enough that heās dreaming of a motel that doesnāt exist.
Outside, an eighteen-wheeler passes on the I-70, close enough to make the windows rattle. Dean shifts in his bed as if a different position is going to be enough to distract him from how badly his ribs ache. His scratched-up neck feels raw as road rash.
No matter how hard he tries, sleep still feels so far out of the realm of possibility that he starts wondering how long he should lie here before he can cut his losses and call it.
But then Sam pipes upāāHey, can I ask you something?āāfrom across the room, not bothering to check first if Deanās awake, and immediately he wants to just keep feigning sleep until morning. He might have sought out his brotherās company only a couple of weeks ago, but right now, with the memory of Samās dismissive attitude toward helping the Collins family fresh in his mind, he doesnāt feel much like talking to him.
āDean.ā
He presses his eyes shut, ignoring the part of himself thatās berating him for being childish. Whether he can get to sleep or not, heās too goddamn exhausted to talk about anything that isnāt life or death.
If he thought there was even a chance that his brother was angling to talk about Jessica, heād be sitting up and listening in a heartbeat. But his tone is inquisitive, not hesitant, and Samās been so closed-lipped about his grief that Dean only knows how much her death is affecting him because of how loud and frequent his nightmares have been.
āDean,ā Sam says again, slightly louder. āI know youāre awake.ā
With a huff, Dean tilts his head to squint at him across the gap between their lumpy mattresses. He grimaces as the motion pulls at the claw marks on his neck. Heāll be lucky if they donāt scar, but maybe itād be better if they do. Maybe itād help if he could see something visibly fucked up when he looks in the mirror. Maybe that would make it easier to explain away the revulsion he feels when he meets his own eyes.
āDude, can it wait until after I get a solid four hours?ā
Bullheaded as ever, Sam ignores the question, sitting up and tucking his shaggy hair back behind his ears. He looks twelve years old. Dean figures he always will, in some ways.
āDid something happen with Dad? Before he took off, I mean.ā
āLike what?ā
Heās not sure why he bothers asking Sam to clarify.
Maybe itās just to buy himself some time; to give himself a second to come up with some version of the truth that doesnāt amount to Dadās an overbearing, pigheaded prick, just like youāve always said, and if I didnāt think he was in trouble right now Iād be glad to be rid of him for at least another month.
Even thinking it makes him guilty. Like heās a bad son for being so angry with the guy. But heās gotta believe that his actions are the important part here; proof that no matter how much he hates his dad sometimes, he still loves him enough to want to keep this family as connected as he can.
Still, a part of him is wondering if itās really worth it anymore to keep up the act. If his clinging to John and clinging to Sam is just making things worse for all of them. Making John think heāll put up with whatever he throws at him. Making Sam think he doesnāt care enough to take his side against John when heās being unreasonable.
A part of him wondersābut itās not a big enough part to win. The thought that something might have happened to him keeps him from letting the bile spill.
Because if they canāt find himāor worse, if they do find him but theyāre too lateāDean doesnāt want Sam to have more reasons to be angry with a dead man than heās already got.
Itās not as though Deanās not used to keeping this shit locked down, anyway. Thereāve been other disagreements, other fights, other circumstances over the years that he knows werenāt even close to being fair on him, but thatās just his life. It sucks, but itās how itās always been. No use complaining about it if itās never gonna change, and after living this way for twenty-two of his twenty-six years, he sees no reason to consider change a possibility.
In the grand scheme of things, this particular incident doesnāt even make the top five list of awful things Johnās put him through. The honors there go to that time with the shtriga, abandoning him at Sonnyās and then uprooting him as soon as he let himself get comfortable, the hunt he sent him on as a seventeenth birthday āpresentā, the night he told Sam not to bother coming back if he left for school, and the simple act of raising his kids into this shit in the first place.
This one might make it into the top ten, though. He hasnāt decided yet.
āWell,ā Sam says, pulling him out of his thoughts. āYou said you hadnāt heard from him inā¦ what, three weeks before you got that message? Seems weird that it was so long, is all. You were on a hunt, he was on a huntā¦ itās just weird that you werenāt checking in more often.ā
Dean rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. Thereās a water stain on the popcorn tile overhead that almost looks like a cactus if he looks at it the right way.
Christ, he could use some tequila right now. Maybe he can find them a case further south while they wait for some sign of John to turn up. Someplace warmer than the mountains in Colorado. Someplace where he can roll into town, waste a ghost, and then knock back a few drinks on a motel patio without having to talk to anyone at all.
āI mean, you usually check in more than that, right?ā Sam goes on, and Dean sighs. He lifts one hand to rub at his brow.
āYeah, usually.ā
āSoā¦ what happened?ā
āNothing you gotta worry about,ā he says, and immediately knows it was a mistake. Sam zeroes in on what Dean didnāt say just as intently as anyone else would focus on what he did.
Maybe he should go to law school after allāheās already got the artful-conversational-trap shit down.
āYou had a fight.ā
āSamāā
āNo, cāmon Dean. You asked me to help you find him. If you had a fight before he left, that seems like it might be relevant.ā
āItās not.ā
āSo why wonāt you just tell me?ā
āIt was nothing,ā he insists. āDad isnāt exactly Mr Congeniality, Sam. We fight all the time.ā
āNo, me and Dad fight all the time. The two of you are usually on the same page.ā
Dean suppresses a snort and rolls onto his side, his back to Sam now as he looks at the narrow strip of moonlight edging past the thin motel curtains.
āYou know Iāll just ask Dad when we find him if you donātāā
āJesus, Sam. It was nothing. Just a stupid disagreement about the hunt we were on. You know how he can get.ā
āWhat was the hunt?ā
āA witch in Louisiana. We had different ideas about what was going on, but itās done, the witch is dead, and it doesnāt matter anymore. Okay?ā
āThatās all?ā
Itās not all.
Thanks to a botched salt-and-burn in Kentucky the previous month, things had already been tense well before they checked into a motel in Souffran, Louisiana. It only got worse when they ran into a woman Dean knew on their second day in town.
Sheād been a civilian, last heād seen her. Said she was a hunter now.
John had been ready to leave as soon as he found out she was already looking into it, but Dean wasnāt so eager.
It wasnāt that he thought Marisa was helplessāfar from it, in fact. Sheād been teaching capoeira when Dean met her in Texas a few months back. Had the thing terrorizing her students been corporeal, he has no doubt that she never would have needed any help in kicking its ass. But she was inexperienced as a hunter. Green as they come.
Dean didnāt love the idea of her taking on whatever was killing kids in Souffran alone.
When he told John as much, his dad just gave him a sly look, as if he thought the only reason Dean cared was because he was looking to get into Marisaās pants. Dean wasnāt, for the record. As he saw it, it was his fault that sheād decided to try hunting on for size in the first place. He figured he owed it to her to back her up while she was still so new.
At first, all theyād had to go on was two kids whoād gone missing and turned up dead a week later without any visible injuries beyond a circular burn in the center of their chests; a girl named Lucy Parker whoād disappeared without a trace from her grandmotherās backyard yesterday but was yet to be found; and half a dozen wildly inconsistent reports of strange lights being seen in the swamp running along the north edge of town.
John had been convinced that they were dealing with a fi folletāa kind of malevolent will-āo-the-wisp known to enact vengeance and drain the blood of children. When Dean disagreed with him, explaining to Marisa that the whole thing felt witchy to him, and pointing out that neither of the kids whoād died had shown any signs of blood loss, John got pigheaded and petty.
He called Dean arrogant. Accused him of acting like John was an idiot ever since they left Kentucky. Spat, āYou spend one day showing a civvie the ropes and now youāre an expert, huh? Well go ahead, kid. Handle it on your own.ā
And then he bailed.
Left Dean and Marisa to track down a missing eight year old on their own, and made Dean feel about three inches tall when he did it.
It took them almost a full two days to track the thing responsible. A witch, like Dean had thought, whoād been draining the kids of their life force in a desperate, last-ditch effort to stave off some sickness that was eating away at him. But the spell heād been using was unstable and ineffective, and heād been haggard and jittery when they found him in a rusty little shack out in the middle of nowhere.
Lucy Parker was right there with him in the room, suspended in mid-air by some unknown force as pale, flickering light leached from the center of her chest and down into a copper bowl on the floor beneath her. Her eyes were wide and rolled back to the whites. Her mouth was open as if she were screaming.
Marisa shot the witch point blank, right between the eyes, and Dean had darted forward to catch Lucy before she could hit the ground. Heād spent the entire time terrified that they were going to get to her too late; that sheād turn up dead before they could figure out where sheād been taken or how to deal with the thing that had taken her.
When she landed in his arms, heād almost been sick when he felt how cold she was. How limp.
But after a second, she gasped, and coughed, and then she was clinging to him. Shaking.
He couldnāt put her down. She wouldnāt let Marisa take her.
Heād been forced leave the shack while Marisa dealt with the witchās body and destroyed all the evidence before some local could stumble upon it, and when sheād emerged gray-faced and bloody half an hour later, with the crackle of fire just audible over the steady croak of frogs in the nearby water, heād known that Marisa wasnāt going on any more hunts.
Lucy still refused to let go of him once they got back to the car, so heād let Marisa drive them back to town, sitting in the back seat with the kid clinging to his side and sobbing snot into his jacket. He hadnāt even minded. If he didnāt think it would scare her more, he might have let himself cry out of sheer relief at finding her.
Late that night--once Lucy was back with her grandmother, and Marisa was on her way back to San Antonio, and Souffran was far enough in the rearview that it was safe to stop for the night--Dean had called John. He didnāt pick up.
Just sent Deanās call straight to voicemail, then texted him coordinates for a poltergeist case near Mobile, Alabama an hour later. A few days after that, more coordinates directed him to the voodoo hunt in New Orleans.
So yeah, a witch in Louisiana is not all. Not by a long shot. He doesnāt tell Sam that, though. What would be the point?
āYeah, thatās all,ā he lies, still staring at the gap in the curtains. Another truck rumbles past, air brakes hissing as it slows to take the town exit. Itās so loud that heās not sure that heād manage to sleep here even if he wasnāt a headcase. āCāmon, I gotta crash, man.ā
For a minute, it seems like Samās gonna keep at it. Like heāll needle at Dean until he spills everything out onto the pilled carpet between them. How scared he is. How angry. How resentful. All the ugliest feelings that seem to be pressing up his throat and onto the back of his tongue like bile.
But he doesnāt. Just sighs, sounding as tired as Dean feels, and says, āYeah, okay. Night, Dean.ā
Dean grunts in reply, and Sam starts snoring after a half hour. Another half hour after that, his nightmares begin. Low, helpless murmurs of Jessicaās name and high-pitched whines of terror that stick in Deanās chest like buckshot.
With dry eyes and an ever-present lump in his throat, Dean pushes out of bed and heads for the bathroom, taking the laptop as he goes.
If heās lucky, heāll find them a hunt before Sam wakes up. He can get them back on the road as soon as the sun rises. Keep them focused on something that isnāt the complete lack of leads on John.
If heās not, maybe staying up will wear him out enough to sleep tomorrow. Heāll take what he can get.
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It's been a long time since Dean saw his brother. Dropping in on him unannounced could really go either way.
Deanās had a splitting headache ever since he got off the I-5.
It started somewhere behind his right eye, a pinpoint of pain that slowly spread outward like a fracture in a windshield, and itās anyoneās guess whether itās courtesy of the excruciatingly dry air of mid-fall in California, or just the constant tension that lives in his bones looking for a new outlet. Whatever the reason, the painkillers he tossed back almost an hour ago have done nothing to help. The stale, lukewarm bottle of water from the passenger side footwell wasnāt any more effective.
Itās edging in on 2am, and heās been leaning against his parked car in the narrow loading area outside Samās building for hours, waiting for the pain to dissipate so that he can focus long enough to come up with the plan he really shouldāve hashed out before he started the long drive from New Orleans.
In Deanās defense, he hadnāt decided whether or not he was actually going to make this detour to Palo Alto at all until he crossed the Colorado River. Heād slowed to a stop under the beige arches of the California Agriculture Station, and sat staring at the Proud Caltech Mom bumper sticker on the Honda in front of him while he waited to be waved through, and decided that whether he could get Sam to help him or not, he shouldnāt pass up this rare opportunity to check in on him. Granted, that was about nine hours before he got here, so he really should have come up with a plan since then.
Still, distracted driving is a killer. Deanās nothing if not a responsible car owner.
Now, he doesnāt know what he was thinking, coming here. He canāt do this. Itās Sam. By some miracle the kid got out, and Dean canāt be the one to drag him back in. Even for this. Even for Dad.
His head pounds and pounds and pounds, and his hands itch to yank the driverās side door back open, to jam the key in the ignition and drive. But as much as he canāt bring himself to go knock on Samās door, he canāt seem to make himself leave either.
Because he canāt do this, but he has to do this. Itās Dad. Shit.
Make up your fucking mind, he thinks, and clenches his jaw. Presses his molars together hard enough that for a scant few seconds, the pressure in his skull eases, just a little.
If somethingās happened to Johnāif heās hurt, or worseāand Dean doesnāt try everything he can to help, he wonāt be able to live with himself. Especially not with how things left off last time they spoke. He knows that as much as Sam butts heads with the guy, Sam wouldnāt forgive him for keeping him in the dark about it either. If nothing else, he has to give Sam the choice.
āOkay,ā he mutters to himself, and digs his phone from his jeans pocket. Heās already tried Johnās number at least a dozen times since he got the voicemail, but once more wonāt hurt. And hell, maybe John will pick up this time. Maybe heāll answer, and heāll tell Dean heās been laid up with the flu or outside of cell range or something, and Dean wonāt need to derail his brotherās life after all.
So he dials the number, and it doesnāt even ring. Just a couple of seconds of silence and static, and then an almost robotic voice tells him the number you have dialed is out of service. Dean flips the phone shut and taps it against his chin a few times before yanking the car door open and tossing it inside.
The doorās hinges creak as he slams it shut again. He makes a mental note to dig the WD-40 out of the trunk when they get to Jericho. When he gets to Jericho. He canāt get ahead of himself. Samās just as likely to tell him to get lost on sight as he is to pack a bag and jump into the passenger seat.
Last time Dean checked in on himāa quiet afternoon almost six months ago now, and Sam hadnāt even seen himāheād looked so casually and comfortably civilian that itās entirely possible heāll want Dean to deal with finding Dad on his own, even if he isnāt still upset about what happened the last time they actually spoke to each other.
Dean almost hopes for that. Almost. But deep down, heās too scared. He doesnāt want to do this on his own. Even admitting that to himself makes him want to crawl into a hole and die, but whatās new, really. Dean wouldnāt be Dean if he regarded his own company as anything less than abject torture.
Heās halfway down the stairwell leading into the building when he stops in his tracks and looks back at the car. Maybe he should try to call one of Johnās other phones again. One more time, just in case. At his side, his hand flexes, fingers stretching out and then making a fist. He exhales, slow and shaky. No. Enough.
Suck it up, he thinks, and glances up as a strong gust of wind rolls by, rattling the fire escape overhead. An idea blooms in his head slowly but surely.
If he breaks into the apartment, he wonāt need to think of a way to break the ice. Sam will be pissed, and maybe if heās angry, itāll stop him from looking at Dean the way he did before he left, like Deanās letting him down just by existing. Dean knows how to deal with an angry brother. Heās never quite got the hang of dealing with a disappointed one.
Heās pulling down the ladder before heās even finished thinking about it.
Samās living room window clatters as he pulls it open. Inside, the floorboards creak underfoot. The apartment smells of oil paints and potted plants and chocolate chip cookies, and for a couple of seconds Dean thinks about sneaking back out the way heād come before anyone can see him. Sam has a life here. Sam is free.
But then Sam launches at him through the dark like a six-and-a-half foot battering ram, and Dean knows immediately that whatever happens when the lights come on, heās not going to be looking for John on his own. Sam might have quit hunting, but heās still got that fire in him.
Heās coming to Jericho.
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