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The Road So Far (This Time Around)
Season 3: Chapter 6
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It was another three hours, with one more stop to worship a porcelain god, but they arrived at the bunker before sundown. Dean was actually doing pretty good by the time they pulled into the garage. Whether the stomach thing had finally passed, the (reluctant) sleeping in between rest stops had actually helped, or the dopamine fix of being home did it, the older Winchester had a straight up pep in his step as he tossed his go bag onto the first table in the library.
Sam, following at a more sedate pace, set his bag next to Dean’s and immediately noticed a piece of paper at the other end of the table. He walked over to it as Dean crossed the length of the library like a man on a mission.
“Yo, Bobby! Want some grub?” Dean hollered through the bunker as he headed directly for the kitchen.
“He ran an errand,” Sam answered in the silence that followed, following after his brother, paper in hand. By the time he made it to the kitchen, Dean already had the refrigerator open, head buried halfway inside. Sam lifted the note as proof when the older Winchester glanced over his shoulder, busy pulling a handful of items out of the fridge, including what looked like ground beef. Sam pulled a look immediately. “Really, man? You just stopped throwing up.”
“Yeah, this ain’t for me,” Dean grumbled with clear regret. He set a carton of chicken broth down on the counter with an unhappy thump. “I will be having this for dinner. Yay me. You, on the other hand, gotta eat. And so does Bobby. No need for everyone else to be on a liquid diet. That note say when he’ll be back?”
“A couple hours. So anytime now, I guess,” Sam answered, watching with baffled amusement as Dean pulled an apron over his head and tied it behind his back. His chest now read, ‘Mr. Good Lookin’ is Cookin’ and Sam raised an eyebrow, lips already upturned. Dean’s return look dared him to say something about it. The younger Winchester raised his hands in surrender.
There’d be plenty of time to bring that up later. Maybe in front of Jo. Or Castiel.
“Then he’ll need food when he gets home,” Dean announced loudly, pointedly ignoring the amusement in his kid brother’s eye. He started moving around the kitchen, pulling out a skillet, cutting board, glass mixing bowls, a knife, and a spatula. He moved about with a level of comfort that left Sam agape. The younger Winchester slid into one of the table stools as Dean got to work. He didn’t stop what he was doing or actually look at Sam as he asked, “You staying for grub?”
There was an edge to his words, trying hard to stay nonchalant, but Sam could hear the apprehension hidden beneath.
“Yeah,” the psychic confirmed immediately and watched as the tension predictably eased out of Dean’s shoulders. “I figured I’d stay a couple days, figure out my next move.”
Dean nodded, pouring some oil into a skillet and getting the burner going beneath it. He turned to the mixing bowls next, chucking ground beef into one and following it up with a bunch of spices, none of which he measured. Dean didn’t catch Sam watching him until well after he’d folded the flavors into the meat, separated the mass into four large balls, and started shaping individual patties.
“What?” he asked defensively, fighting the self-consciousness that clung to him like a real itchy blanket. “So I like to cook. It calms me down, alright?” Sam nodded supportively, which only made Dean glare harder. “Shut up and appreciate that I’m cooking for you, Bitch.”
“By all means,” Sam responded with a grin, leaning back and making a grand, sweeping gesture for his brother to carry on. “Cook away, jerk.”
Oh, he would.
“Bitch,” Dean grumbled as he threw the burgers on the heated skillet, enjoying the sizzle and the smell of grease that filled the kitchen. He moved on, fetching buns from the pantry and digging condiments out of the fridge. “So. Who you gonna see next?”
“What?”
“Your next Psychic Master.” Dean raised an eyebrow from over his shoulder, though the look was severely undercut by the apron strap across his neck and the perfect bow tied behind his back. “Who’d you pick?”
“Oh.” Understanding crossed Sam’s face before it smoothed over and he shrugged noncommittally. “I haven’t yet.”
“Any top contenders?” Dean effortlessly switched between slicing a tomato and flipping the burgers.
“Uh… yeah, I guess one,” Sam answered, posture perking up a little as he started actually thinking about the question. He had a handful of names to pursue, but the closest psychic had come highly recommended. And after the djinn… well, Sam now had a vested interest in staying close. “She was on both Bobby and Missouri’s list, so I thought… yeah, probably a good place to start.”
“Her name Pamela Barnes?”
Sam sat straight up, eyes wide. “Yeah! How did you–” His eyebrows went up and he leaned in, excitedly, “Wait, did we know her?”
“Oh, we knew her.” Dean couldn’t help but grin at the excitement in his brother’s voice. He started assembling the buns as he said, “You are gonna have a fun time with her.”
Sam’s eyebrows climbed into his hair and Dean cackled at the mix of surprise, anticipation, and boyish embarrassment turning the tips of the kid’s ears red. Dean decided to take mercy on him as he pulled the patties off the skillet.
“She helped us find Cas after I got dragged outta Hell with no clue who’d done the deed. She’s, well… she’s something.”
He purposefully left it at that: no need to tell his brother that they’d gotten the poor woman’s eyes burned out of her skull or later killed. The Pamela that Sam would be meeting had been something else and, hopefully, she’d stay that way. Full of life and mischievous joy. Besides, she wouldn’t be running into any angels this time.
“Foods up,” Dean announced, carrying a plated burger over to where Sammy was seated, another one left at the counter for whenever Bobby got in. Sam accepted the food with eyebrows raised in surprise (it actually looked edible. Not just edible, but good ) and Dean returned a moment later with his microwaved bowl of chicken broth.
Yay him.
Sam’s first bite was followed by a surprised moan and Dean grinned at his baby brother. “Good, right?”
“Holy crap,” came Sam’s response through a mouth full of food.
Dean just kept right on grinning as he picked up his spoon and willed his boring broth to be as good as he knew his burgers were. He failed, miserably, but that was okay. Seeing Sam enjoy the food he cooked was enough.
As they chatted about Pamela and some of Sam’s plans – when he should leave, when he’d be back, and a reminder (several, in fact) for Dean to call him – the bunker door opened and closed with its signature clank and clunk. The thumps of Bobby’s boots on the metal staircase were preceded by the scrabble of four paws.
“In here!” Dean called out before Bobby went looking for ‘em. Sarge found them first, racing into the room with tail wagging furiously. Sam greeted the dog enthusiastically while Dean rolled his eyes and made face after face. Bobby came into the kitchen next, eyebrows raised at the scene. Dean gave him a look (which was returned in equal measure) and asked, “Hungry?”
“Smells good,” Bobby answered with a nod even as Dean got up to grab the awaiting burger. “You make enough for Sarge?”
The older Winchester grumbled obscenities as he snagged Bobby’s plate off the counter. He had, of course: an extra patty with no seasoning or salt, because it turned out he was a god damn sucker for anyone enjoying his food (including a mangy mutt) and sodium was apparently bad for dogs.
God damn sucker .
Dean served up Bobby’s burger first, glaring at the man even as he went back to the counter and dug out a small bowl. The dog pranced up and down like a friggin’ bunny and circled around himself several times as Dean grabbed the spare patty and started breaking the meat up into the bowl.
“Hold your horses, ya filthy animal,” he muttered to the mutt as he added a scoop of the kibble they kept in the kitchen.
The ear-to-ear grins on both Bobby and Sam’s faces – way too fond and way too pleased with themselves – had Dean resuming his grumbled obscenities as he set the bowl down. Sarge circled two more times, tail going so fast his butt was trying to outpace his front. But as Dean signaled the dog, the shepherd sat (tail still going a mile a minute) and waited for his release command.
“Alright, eat your heart out, you mutt,” Dean muttered. The dog dug in with gusto.
The older Winchester shook his head, appalled as much with himself as he was with the animal, and went back to his seat at the table. He glared at his family, still grinning away, and dug into his soup with bitter vigor.
“You know, my bunker didn’t come with a dog,” he grumbled, slurping his broth as obnoxiously and loudly as he could.
“Well, our bunker does,” Sam said with both tone and posture that could only be described as perky .
“What your brother said,” Bobby groused his agreement around a mouth full of delicious burger. His boy was a damn good cook, as he’d had the privilege of discovering over the past several weeks.
Dean should be making fun of the both of them, or at least grumbling some more, but he was so damn pleased that they’d called the bunker theirs that he could forgive the inclusion of a furball.
He was still smiling when Bobby, in lieu of telling him he was adorable (which had been a close second choice – don’t think he hadn’t noticed Sarge’s burger sitting aside from the rest, clearly made for the dog), gave his kid a long once-over. Bandaged wrists, circles under his eyes, pallor a couple shades too light, eating broth while burgers surrounded him. Once he’d caught Dean’s eye – the kid’s smile regrettably fading – Bobby offered a solemn nod and said, “You look like crap.”
“Gee, thanks.” Dean glared at his surrogate father as surely as he glared down at his soup, which really wasn’t at all appetizing, despite his best attempts at pretending.
“It was a djinn,” Sam announced without being asked. The older Winchester shot him a glare that, if looks alone could kill, would have made him an only child.
Bobby swore viciously and the man from the future flinched in turn. “Damnit, Dean. You god damn idjit!”
“I know, okay? I already got the lecture,” Dean bit back defensively, shoulders up just like his hackles. He was tired of hearing this, and they’d been right , alright? Wasn’t telling Sam that enough?
When his brother raised a challenging eyebrow – apparently he hadn’t been lectured enough, in Sam’s opinion – Dean snapped, “I gave it to myself when I woke up hanging from the ceiling being drained of all my blood, alright? Next time, I’ll call Sam.”
The silence that followed should have made him feel good. The shaded looks that fell over his family should have too. But it only made him feel worse and Dean once again stared into his soup.
“You alright?” Bobby’s voice was softer but no less gruff. The silent ‘son’ tacked onto the end of that sentence was not all that silent to either Winchester.
“Yeah,” Dean answered immediately, then, almost as immediately, followed it with a completely unapproved, unintentional, and entirely too truthful, “No, not really.”
Once it registered that he had, indeed, blurted that out to his family, Dean was about as horrified from the admission as they were surprised by it. He opened his mouth to hastily deny the words, only for nothing to come out. His brain was spinning but his thoughts were utterly empty, a contradiction that made him want to punch something. Slowly, Dean closed his mouth.
Hesitantly but unable to stop himself, Dean looked over his shoulder at the kitchen counter. Cas had made him coffee there just yesterday. At least, he’d thought she had. He’d experienced, even if it hadn’t actually happened. A shiver slithered its way from the back of his neck to the base of his spine. He could taste it on his tongue. Black, no room for cream or sugar. He could feel her skin beneath his hand as he helped her pour. Could see the smile on her lips.
Taste those lips against his.
Dean quickly looked away, head down, and tried to think of anything else. Like the fact that he’d just told his family he was absolutely not okay.
That did it. Instead of very nearly hyperventilating over a djinn dream, he was very nearly hyperventilating over that.
He could lie. He could tell Sam and Bobby that he was fine, make up an excuse for why he’d said he wasn’t. But they’d both know it and he hated the look they always gave him when they knew. Knew, but didn’t call him on it. It looked too much like disappointment.
“No,” Dean repeated as he scrubbed a hand through his short hair. The truth sucked – every damn time – but there was also something to be said for that whole ‘truth sets you free’ crap. With a frustrated sigh, he raised his eyes to meet theirs. “No, I’m not alright. But I will be.”
And that was the truth. He’d get over it; he always did.
The friggin’ way that Sam’s eyes lit up, watery with pride, made Dean’s jaw clench (even if it did something entirely different to his stomach – something squirmy that he wouldn’t be examining anytime soon). Bobby, on the other hand, gave a firm, manly nod that the hunter appreciated so much more than Princess Samantha’s Anime Sparkle Eyes of Hope (no matter if that squirmy thing in his stomach came with a voice that whispered, ‘you like it and you know it,’ which he would also not be examining anytime soon).
“So,” Bobby started with a raised eyebrow and thinned lips, like he knew what he was about to ask wouldn’t go over well, but he was damn well gonna ask it anyway. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Hell no,” Dean answered immediately. This time there was no second guessing his response.
Bobby nodded in complete understanding. Then shrugged a shoulder and said, “Yeah… you gonna anyway?”
Dean groaned and dropped his head again, tugging at his hair and wishing the ground would just open up and swallow him whole. “You know, my bunker didn’t come with the touchy feelies, either.”
“Well, ours does,” Bobby parroted Sam’s earlier words before the younger Winchester could repeat them with a predictably smug grin. Sam perked up once again, looking so damn pleased with himself and their surrogate dad that Dean’s stomach started doing the squirmy thing again.
He ignored it and scowled instead. The stupid thing just kept right on squiggling. He spent a good couple minutes trying to ignore its existence before sighing in defeat. God damn feelings. “Don’t even know where to start.”
“What was the wish?”
Just like that, all the good feelings were gone and all the moisture in his mouth dried up like a desert creek in the hottest month of the year. Dean swallowed past it. Took him a couple of tries, but he managed. He could do this. He’d volunteered for this, damnit. “I, uh… dreamed the Apocalypse was nixed. For sure, I mean.”
Sam’s eyes instantly turned puppy-dog-hopeful-sad-pittying-sympathetic-and-all-around-teeth-grindingly-annoying, so Dean maintained a probably-too-intense gaze on Bobby instead. He, like a normal person, pursed his lips in contemplation, then nodded in acceptance, like Dean’s admission was nothing special, made perfect sense, and didn’t need to be handheld, coddled, or supported to death.
“You know,” Sam started, voice already taking on that overly cautious, hedging tone that never failed to set Dean on edge anytime it was aimed his way, “if we have no way of knowing whether we stopped it or not, maybe you could, I don’t know… try to relax? There’s nothing we can do until…”
“Until it’s too late?” Dean added helpfully and not at all through a clenched jaw and a look that told Sam to shut up before he really ticked him off.
He looked at Bobby, begging him with a glare to take over before Sam stepped in it. Unfortunately, for all Sam’s smarts, that was one battle he never seemed willing to lose. For all of Bobby’s, it was one battle the old hunter rarely got in the middle of.
Sam shrugged in response, eyes all earnest, and Dean kind of wanted to punch him.
(Which was usually, and most annoyingly, when Sam had a point.)
“What if it’s never too late?” He reasoned. Beside the younger Winchester, Bobby glanced at him sidelong, like he wasn’t sure this was the best approach, even if it was the right subject. “What if we really did stop it, are you going to stay this uptight and stressed for a whole year before you start letting yourself believe maybe it’s safe?”
Dean leveled a glare at his brother that skipped right past suggesting a topic change and now demanded it. Bobby’s skeptic glance switched brothers, now cautioning Dean, who steamrolled right past.
“You’re the psychic, you tell me. Should I feel safe, Sammy?”
Dean knew it was over the line even as he said it. And if he hadn’t, Bobby hanging his head with a huff and adjusting his ball cap like a disappointed dad at a kid’s little league game, would have definitely clued him in. As well as the flash of hurt that crossed Sam’s whole face before it smoothed out completely, eyes turning glacial.
“Low blow, dick,” Sam bit out with an incredible amount of patience given the audible anger behind the words.
Dean knew it for a fact. He’d said it to start a fight, to end the conversation (which he had willingly entered, the little voice reminded him). With a frustrated sigh the older Winchester buried his head in his hand, elbow on the table, and scrubbed angrily at his scalp again. Why the hell was he so bad at this?
Sarge let out a distressed whine, nudging Bobby’s thigh and looking between him and the two brothers. The old hunter offered a comforting pat to the dog’s head, but Sarge backed away, whining once more and turning towards the kitchen door.
“We were just outside, you mongrel,” Bobby complained, even as he climbed to his feet.
“I can take him out,” Sam offered, probably looking for an escape just as much as Dean (but only if it meant helping rather than lashing out. Because that was Sam Winchester in a nutshell, wasn’t it?)
“Nah,” Bobby shook his head, already on his feet with Sarge pacing anxiously by the open door. “You two figure this out-” he made a sweeping gesture at… well, both of them. “I’m hitting the hay soon anyway.”
With that, the older hunter ambled out of the kitchen, Sarge taking off ahead of him. Sam turned back to Dean, who still had his head buried in his hand, pointedly ignoring everything around him. After a lengthy silence (which was giving him hives), Dean stood abruptly and gathered the empty plates and half-eaten bowl of broth, taking them over to the sink.
The clanking of dishware and running water was the only sound for several more moments before Dean made an aggravated noise and shut off the water with an angry jab at the knob. He spun, hands on his hips – which was quite a pose given that he was still wearing the apron – and anger in his eyes. Aimed at himself, this time, not Sammy.
“I’m sorry,” he said, kind of forcefully for an apology. “It’s just been a long-”
A long what: night? Try days . He had been in that dream – that other world, that had felt real, if only because he’d wanted it to be real – for days .
“I’m just tired, man,” he finished lamely, dropping his arms at his sides. “And I miss-”
The man from the future cut himself off as soon as he realized where that admission was headed and instead turned back to the sink. He resumed doing dishes, soaping up the plates without running the water again, absolutely hiding from his brother.
He missed Cas. A lot. A stupid amount. Having her around, even if it hadn’t been real…
(And a lot more than just around , holy shit. He was so not examining that anytime soon. As far as Dean was concerned, that part hadn’t happened . That part had just been a normal dream – an actual dream – and a weird ass one at that. It hadn’t been part of the wish. Nothing more to say about it.)
But a world where Cas had been with them, safe and free to do what she wanted, safe and free to stay with him - them, well…. Dean knew Cas, even a younger version. She had been happy to be there, with him in the bunker and then on a case. And damn if that hadn’t made Dean miss her all the more.
He didn’t get it (and was not examining it, thank you very much), but it was starting to feel like an ache. Dean didn’t have a damn clue what to do with that.
“Who do you miss?” Sam asked when Dean failed to continue. He was going for nonchalant, but there was too much puppy-dog-victim-voice buried beneath it for Dean not to notice.
The time traveler sighed, setting the now soaped-up dishes back in the sink and staring at the faucet like it had personally attacked him. Like most things that gave him the hives when he thought too hard on ‘em, Dean did what he always did: decided not to think about it. He reached forward and turned the water back on.
“Tell me about your Jedi training,” he said, equally nonchalant, as he started rinsing plates. Behind him, he heard Sam sigh as well.
“Dean-”
“Leave it, Sammy.”
“No, I’m not going to do that,” his kid brother announced loudly, easily heard over the running water. “I’m tired of dodging your emotional landmines, alright? Why do you act like you’re not allowed to care about her?”
Dean balked, pulling his head back and turning to give Sam an over-acted side eye, like he had no idea what his brother was talking about. “Who?”
Sam’s bitchface was the Ultimate variety (requiring no number, for it was Ultimate ) and Dean knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. At least he got bonus points for annoying his little brother into that particular bitchface.
“Castiel, Dean. You act like you’re not allowed to have feelings for her-”
“I don’t have feelings for her,” Dean replied immediately, tone perfectly neutral and not at all freaking out, squeaky, or hysterical. Sam raised an eyebrow and Dean turned back to the sink, practically hiding his head between his shoulders.
“I’m not talking about love , you blockhead,” Sam announced loudly, voice exasperated. Dean heard him stand from the table but didn’t turn to see if his brother was approaching. He really hoped he’d keep his distance. Lord knew he needed it. “She is your best friend , Dean. She gave up her whole life and family for you, died for you, and sent you through time . Of course you have feelings for her!”
Dean faltered, nearly dropping the dish in his hands. He set it down carefully on the counter before casting a furtive glance at Sam, who had resettled against the side of the table closest to the sink, perched on the edge with arms crossed over his chest. Confronting Dean without closing in on him. The older Winchester swallowed roughly and reached for the next dish.
“Emotions do exist outside of romance,” Sam said calmly. “And having them doesn’t make you less of a man.”
“I know that!” Dean erupted, face flushed red as he finally turned to face his brother. “That’s not-”
“Which means,” Sam continued on, right past Dean’s interruption, “that you are allowed to have feelings for Castiel. She can mean more to you than everyone else, Dean. You don’t have to hide that like it’s some shameful secret. She’s your best friend; you’re allowed to fucking miss her, dude.”
Dean wished he’d stuck to doing the dishes, back turned to this conversation, ignorant of the imploring (and exasperated) expression on Sammy’s face. The one that said, ‘ you can have this, Dean ,’ and somehow managed it with a straight face and friggin’ sincerity .
The silence stretched, Dean’s jaw torn between clenching tighter than a damn vice and shaking right alongside his trembling bottom lip, which he hid by sucking it between his teeth and clamping down hard. The hunter tried to keep a glare locked on his brother, but his stupid eyes kept looking away.
“You done?” he finally managed, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the side wall. It was supposed to be snarky and snappy, supposed to show Sam that he didn’t care about this sissy stuff, that he was fine , and definitely not moved by it at all. But what came out was meek and cracking and desperately hopeful. Dean cleared his throat out of sheer embarrassment. Worse yet, that little voice in his head – the one that had been getting louder and louder ever since he traveled back in time – whispered, ‘maybe it’s okay .’
Dean kind of wanted to break right then and there, but he couldn’t because it wasn’t. It wasn’t okay. And it wasn’t Sammy’s job to pick up the pieces of his broken mess. Since there wasn’t anyone else to do it (and no way in hell was Dean up to the task alone), he just wouldn’t break. That was all there was to it.
“You done being an emotionally constipated idiot?” Sam countered.
“Rude,” Dean responded immediately on rote, but actually noticed that his shoulders relaxed at least half an inch and his gut, which was clenching hard enough to cramp, uncoiled. His hands ended up on his hips before he even realized he was gearing up for a lecture all his own.
Just like that, Sam had broken all the tension when Dean hadn’t even known where to start.
Annoyed (and yet incredibly thankful), Dean focused on that: familiar ground. “I was in that djinn dream for days, alright? Give a guy a break.”
“I could,” Sam responded with a light shrug. “I actually want to. But I can’t if I don’t know what that break is for.”
Sam had walked him right into that one. Beautifully, painfully, expertly. Dean wanted to be annoyed, he did, but really, he was just tired. So he stalked back over to the table and sank onto the chair opposite his brother, glaring the entire time. Sam joined him, waiting it out, already secure in his victory.
“Cas was…”
The man from the future sighed, running his hands through his hair in frustration. How did he even start talking about it? Dean took a deep breath and decided plowing ahead, mindless of the path of destruction he’d be leaving in his wake, was the way to go. He’d clean up after or shove it under a convenient rug.
“Cas was there. In the dream.”
Sam nodded with complete understanding he didn’t deserve to have because he didn’t understand .
Dean fisted his hands on the metal tabletop and tried to find the words to make him understand.
“Cas was living with us. In the bunker. She was still an angel, I think, but, uh, she was… you know, making like a human for the most part. And it wasn’t…” He fell off again, struggling and hating every second of it. Dean ran a hand through his hair again to keep his fingers from curling into fists. He tried to find the words for what he needed to say without thinking too hard about what those words actually meant. “It wasn’t as hard for her as, um… last time. She was taking to it.”
His brother nodded again, not commenting – which was driving Dean up a wall he didn’t have a name for – but listening patiently. The older Winchester couldn’t decide if he was grateful or annoyed. Maybe that wall was both.
It wasn’t like Sammy would ever change the subject, even if that’s what Dean desperately needed his brother to do. The silence stretched and the older Winchester got fidgety. At least if Sam wasn’t asking questions, Dean wouldn’t have to figure out any answers, he supposed.
“She was happy,” he found himself, mouth moving while his brain was still panicking. Fan-freaking-tastic. This was why talking it out sucked. Now he was gonna say shit he definitely didn’t need Sam psychoanalyzing with puppy dog eyes and unearned sympathy. “Cas was happy. Or, you know, seemed happy. And I…”
…had been happy, too. Fuck . He’d been happy because she was happy, and he fucking missed that feeling.
Dean dragged a hand down his face, wondering what the ever-loving hell he was getting himself into here. Whatever it was, it was a place he was pretty damn sure he didn’t want to be. Had no right being, if nothing else.
“Look, it was just… a mind-fuck, alright?” he settled on, the words defensive but the tone absolutely exhausted. He wasn’t sure how else to put it and was too damn tired to look for more elegant phrasing. It was the truth. At least most of it. “It was-”
Everything I want her life to be.
“R and R,” was what came out of his mouth as his stomach clenched and his throat tried to swallow glass and his heart was doing something real damn painful in his chest. There was a soft flare alongside it, a gentle brush of that sliver of grace in his chest. If anything, his heart ached all the more for it.
Sam was looking at him a little funny – maybe because his brother was having a damn heart attack across the table from him while trying to joke away the whole conversation – but the older Winchester shook his head.
“I’m serious,” he insisted, trying to make sense of what was going on in his brain. He’d never been great at putting any of that sorta stuff into sensible words. “It was like taking a vacation from all-” he gestured around them. “It was nice. And I, uh… I didn’t want to leave.”
Sam stiffened at the quiet admission, which he knew had to be as painful as pulling teeth for his brother to admit out loud. The younger Winchester was glad Dean was trying to open up – seriously glad – but taken aback to see his stoic, always-has-to-be-fine, older brother admit that he wanted, even for a second, to give up. But Sam understood, entirely too well. If it had been Jess….
“I don’t think I would have been able to,” he whispered his own admission, imagining for an all-too-real moment what that would have been like. To believe it was real, to feel that you’d finally gotten something you wanted – so desperately that it was no longer a want so much as a need – and then to have it all pulled out from under you. Worse yet, it wasn’t taken away from you; no, it was represented as a lie that you could still have, if you were okay knowing none of it was real.
Having to choose to abandon your own deepest desire…
Sam closed his eyes. Any remorse he had for ending that djinn’s life, especially as it had been a particularly gruesome death, evaporated as he realized just what the creature had put his brother through.
He preferred the monsters that just outright tried to kill you. They were somehow simpler. Fairer. Just the circle of life, food on the food chain, predator and prey alike, both trying to survive.
When he opened his eyes again, Dean was staring at him. Sam cleared his throat. “If it had been Jess,” he clarified, “I don’t think I would have been able to leave.”
His brother’s green eyes fell to the table and Sam could read shame there, but more so he saw loss and maybe even grief. Like Dean was starting to accept that it was okay to feel he’d lost something these past few days, as illusory as it may have been.
“I didn’t want to,” the older Winchester added, clearly still uncomfortable sharing. A swell of pride filled Sam as he watched his brother keep at it anyway. “God, I really didn’t. But I knew it was fake and… I had people waiting for me out here.”
“I’m glad you came back,” Sam said just as quietly, reaching out to lay his hand atop his brother’s arm. Dean’s eyes flickered to his for a second before dropping. Sam withdrew, not wanting to push ‘chick flick territory’ any further than he could get away with. Instead, with a smile he added, “Even if the world could be falling to shit.”
It got a laugh out of his brother, which had been the goal.
“But,” Sam continued with a casual one-shoulder shrug. “Since we don’t know that it is, maybe until then…”
Dean’s smile morphed into a good-humored glare. “Chin up?”
“I was going to say why not take some R and R?” Sam said with a chuckle. When Dean’s eyebrows went up, he offered another simple shrug. “I know it won’t be the same, because you’re still worried about Cas, but… you’ve been going nonstop since 2016, Dean. You’re going to burn out if you don’t take some downtime.”
The older Winchester glanced away, familiar guilt clouding his expression once more.
“You’re confident that Cas isn’t in any danger,” Sam added, pushing a little harder now for his brother to hear the truth in his words. “And we’ll figure out how to get Gabriel to release her, okay? We’re not just giving up there. But in the meantime… you’re no good to anyone dead on your feet.”
Or stuck in your own head .
Sam didn’t say it, but Dean heard it. Or maybe that was just that new voice in his head.
The younger Winchester stood, grabbing his cup. “Get some rest, okay? Dinner was great. Thank you for cooking.”
The compliment was given with such genuine appreciation that Dean found himself blushing. Not trusting the lump in his throat or his brain-to-mouth connection, he just nodded as Sam headed out of the kitchen, leaving his older brother with a lot to think about and a lack of energy for doing the thinking.
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End Chapter
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