Chapter Text
Dean prepares lunches that will hardly last them their entire trip and Sam packs a few additional jars of what is undoubtedly brain in an icy cold container. They had postponed their trip when Leia had developed a fever in the night, and Sam had been too terrified that she would get worse, let alone trying to move her across the United States. They'd stayed put, and Dean grimly left sometime during one of those long nights to return with worryingly fresh brain matter. When Sam looked at him and considered asking the unthinkable, Dean had just shook his head and said, "Didn't get this from anyone alive, Sam."
Sad thing is, Sam wouldn't have been upset. He knows Dean would have picked the living carefully, if it had ever come to that. And while the Sam of years ago would be horrified by that idea — that he would do what Amy had done for her kid — he can't summon the effort to be a good person again now. Not when it came to the life of his daughter. Dean probably reads that in his face. Hell, Dean's different now, too. He would probably help. Would help his brother keep this family alive. It's not something he'd ever want to force on him, but Sam has a feeling he doesn't need to. When Dean passes him the jar, he looks at Sam in that fiercely loyal way that makes Sam's heart ache.
They give Leia a little time to get better, and then they leave the bunker for their planned trip. She's still a bit wobbly on her feet, but she's got color in her cheeks again, and the worst is over. She'll be fine. She leans her head out the window and lets the wind play on her hair, and Sam knows they've avoided their health scare. Everything's going to be okay for now, and that's enough for Sam to enjoy a little wind from the passing scenery, himself.
"I feel like my car is full of dogs," Dean says, when Lilly also sticks her head out the window.
They don't make a beeline for the mid-west, though. They stop by Sioux Falls first.
Jody is hustling out from her front door before he's even out of the Impala, still dressed up in her sheriff's uniform from a hard day's work, before she makes a move to hug Sam — and hesitates, hovering in front of him. She reads something in him, and he feels this overwhelming self-consciousness, like maybe he really does look like some strange leper that nobody would want to embrace. It's only when she holds her arms out again, motioning to him, letting him make the choice, that he realizes she probably knows as much as Dean does by now; she's trying to let him find some comfort in touch on his own time, at his own pace.
The thought is a nice one, and he lets himself melt into her soft, careful hold.
Her hand rubs circles in his back, and he hears rough emotion in her tone. "Welcome back, Sam. We missed you."
He ducks his chin into her shoulder, bent awkwardly and feeling somehow small in the tiny woman's grip.
"... It's good to be back," he replies, and it really feels like it's true.
Alex and a blonde girl in dark mascara stands at the front of the house, shifting back and forth in their sneakers. Sam's heard about Castiel finding Claire again — about her mother's passing, and about Dean leading her right to the cop's front door. Sam's not even surprised that Jody had opened her home up to another kid; when she took Annie in, Sam could see she took her in with such paternal intensity, it's no wonder she didn't start her own halfway house for orphans.
Leia and Lilly approach cautiously behind their father as he is finally allowed to disentangle himself from Jody's grip, while Dean's not too far behind them, giving the sheriff a one-armed but will entirely genuine hug. It's safe here, Sam tells himself. It's safe. Dean wanders to pester Claire like it's a holiday special for him, to make her roll her eyes and complain in the distance, while Jody offers the girls a smile. Crouching on one knee, she tries her best to look harmless. Sam appreciates that, too. He appreciates all of this.
"Hi. You're Lilly and Leia, aren't you?"
Lilly, taking up the face of Jasmine today, pulls her thumb out of her mouth and smiles a timid smile that is missing a few teeth.
"You're Jody," the child says, undaunted. Sam's told her stories, made her feel prepared for the new figure encroaching on their small, private bubble.
"That's me. Say, I happen to have two girls of my own; how about you guys go visit? I bet you'll be good friends. They're very nice, too." She turns her attention to Sam, a little wry smile on her lips. "Or else they'll have double the kitchen duty, so sayeth the boss of the house." Sam isn't really scared of Annie; the girl knows what it's like, to have monsters in your family, to embrace that side of life. Claire, he's admittedly skittish about. After all, she's had so much ripped away from her by inhuman forces that it's only fair she harbors ill will toward the things that go bump in the night.
Jody seems to know just what he's thinking, and she says softly, "I told Claire a few things. She's interested in meeting the girls. They... have a lot in common."
And besides, Sam adds mentally, Dean is watching them all like a hawk.
They set up a table for dinner, and Sam pulls on his sleeves to help with it all like a normal person does, feeling strange without the weight of his jacket defending the old marks from scrutiny. Claire watches them a lot, unaware that Sam is too aware nowadays. It's not long in the preparing of supper before they end up alone in the small space by chance, and the girl finally has an opportunity to try and speak to a man she hasn't ran into in many, many years. He wouldn't be surprised if she saw him as a threat, but maybe time around Cas and Dean have done something for her, because her intentions seem pure.
"... Hi," she mumbles, tucking a wild blond lock behind her ear. She seems unsure of how to voice what's on her mind, but — "You're a lot different than I remember. You look, um..."
He quirks a brow. "Like shit?"
Taken aback, she grins toward the curtains on the window in front of them, then finally looks at him. "I was gonna say something nicer, but sure. That's good. You cook?"
"A little," he admits, because it's weird to think about how he's picked up such normal traits while feeling so wrong in his skin all these years. "You?"
She clears her throat. "Almost burnt the house down, once."
"Ah."
And it's as easy as that. They sit and have a meal, the whole lot of them. And though it's a bit stiff at first, Sam finds there's a calmness in it that he kind of would like to have again sometime. Annie and Claire show Leia around their rooms, which Sam has been careful not to intrude too much on, but he does give passing glances through the cracked door while Dean turns down a beer that Jody offers in the backdrop.
Sam looks again, catches the briefest moment of Annie pulling up one of Lilly's feet to paint her nails. His ear catches the conversation inside; just a part of it.
"I lost my mom and dad, too," Claire says, soft and kind, very unlike the girl in the kitchen with the mile-high sass and careful defense. "Sorry. Jody told me."
"It's okay," Leia says. "I'm sorry about your mom and dad. I'm glad you found a new one."
Like a revelation, slow, but warmed: "... Yeah. I guess... I did."
Sam steps away, meets Jody in the living room, and feels his eye drawn to the textbooks stacked on the coffee table, because even now its in his nature to notice these things.
"... College books?"
"It's been a long time, Sam." She rubs a hand on his bicep, brows knitted in sympathy while her smile grows thin. "They graduated high school a while ago."
"Hey, Dad. Do you think..." Leia begins, as they lay down for the night on Jody's blow-up mattresses and comfortable couch cushions, "... that I could do that? What they did? Go... to school?"
Sam looks over, and in the light he suddenly realizes Leia's face seems sharper, eyes not quite so large in youth, her neck slimmer than he recollects. He could have swore she looked younger than this. He could have swore she was just a kid, but now that she's looking so earnestly — so hopefully — at him, he realizes she's going to be an adult in almost no time at all. She's thirteen years old. She's a teenager. The thought steals his breath, new fear trickling in, and for what is not the first time he wonders if he'll ever be remotely qualified to help her reach adulthood. Go to school. Go to college. Be normal. Part of him wants to lock her away from society and protect her from everything out there that has fangs or blades alike. But he knows better. He knows that's not going to make her happy, if that's not what she craves from life.
He feels a little guilty, that he's never outright asked her what she wants. She's never seemed to want to be around other people. But...
But maybe days like this are all it takes. Maybe she's daydreamed a little, looking at those old girly magazines on Jody's bookshelf.
Imagine that. The girls going to school, braving that world for something good. Something pure and honest and what anyone deserves. What he'd wanted, as a child.
He blinks, surprised when his eyes feel hot.
"Of... of course you can. You can do whatever you want, Leia." His voice is just a whisper. "I'll help you with anything you decide. It's your life." The memories of a shaggy-haired young man standing outside of Stanford University in a soaked hoodie with an old duffel feels like a million years away. Smiling, he reaches out and smooths back the hair on her head. Sam prays to God, finally, after so many years: Please, if you're still out there, keep her safe.
The decision is this: he will find a way to carry them to Heaven when the end comes, which is... hopefully in the far, far future. Even if he needs to bulldoze through every monster in Purgatory, or every angel in Heaven. He'll tear Hell up by the roots and rattle Lucifer in his cage, if he has to. They're not going to be fated to that awful place; they're so much more than where death wants to send them.
And anyway, he's a Winchester, after all. He won't settle for less.
He finds little comfort sleeping somewhere new, even in the house of a friend, but he does find comfort in the way Leia tucks her chin at his answer, her lips curling fondly. Sleep carries him away eventually, and he gnashes his teeth at the usual dreams that trickle in (the lights, the cold cage, the hiss of beasts), but waking up to the sight of the Winchesters sprawled across the floor in peaceful sleep? It gives him enough peace of mind to find a little solace of his own. The cold sweat settles and dries. He refuses to be taken apart by his own mind this day, not on such a good night like tonight.
When they pack everything up and leave at the crack of morning, Jody makes sure he puts her phone number back into his contacts — without allowing for even a moment any breed of dissent from him of course. Sam wouldn't dream of denying her this demand. She says, handing his phone back, "After all, you and I have even more in common now than ever before. I've got experience. Let me know when they start sneaking out of the house to set off fireworks at the park."
Dean cracks up, but Sam doesn't think his mortification is that funny, thanks.
They reach Reno, Nevada at last.
And even with all the problems the last few years: all the terrible nightmares and bad sleepwalking episodes — even with the terrible concoctions of Lucifer and the monster ring, or the days of burdened paranoia, Sam has never, ever, ever forgotten this address. He had memorized it with the utmost care, as would an angel with the names of prophets. The house the Impala has pulled up in front of is very neatly kept and so utterly normal in appearance that Sam forgets that nothing is what meets the eye. Not anymore, if it ever did. He steps out of the car with Lilly on his heels, but Leia sits firm in the car with Dean, as Dean peers out through the window.
"You sure you're good by yourself?" he asks Sam, frowning. Even with his time among the monster children, Dean can't bring himself to trust a home belonging to the things he'd hunt in the night. But Sam just waves a hand dismissively, trying to bolster some of that fast-fading courage. He has to do this. there's no two ways about it. With a little smile, he throws his thumb over his shoulder.
"I'll be fine. And I won't be by myself; Lilly's my back-up on this one."
Dean whistles low, peering down at Lilly. "Keep him safe, huh?"
Lilly nods, clasping his hand tighter in hers.
They take the long walk past a bird fountain and alongside carefully tended rose bushes. It's neat, bright, and yet Sam feels his palms sweat at his sides as he takes step after grueling step to the doorbell. He pushes it quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. And he waits.
The person who answers is an old woman, her hair white on her head and carefully maintained in a short bob. She's got a comfortable-looking knitted sweater on, the pinnacle of a relative you'd visit on the holidays, something soft and inviting about her bright blue eyes. There's nothing out of the ordinary about her, nothing strange about her person, so much so that Sam for a moment considers that maybe the people he's looking for had moved away; it was more than possible, after losing something so precious to them. And yet...
He clears his throat. The voice he uses is one of condolences, light and careful. "I came here on behalf of Glenda."
The woman's spotted, shivering hands move slowly to her mouth, eyes welling with tears, and she sobs, because she doesn't have to ask where Glenda is.
But despite this, there is a weight taken off her thin shoulders that Sam practically feels erode away.
This must be Glenda's grandmother.
The living room is very clean and orderly, potpourri sitting in a basket on the small table between them. There aren't a lot of photos, but enough, and the place is decorated in friendly colors and warm tones. Glenda's grandmother, Mildred, serves he and Lilly drinks, and Sam tells her everything that had happened when she's ready and eager to know the details. He tells her all that he remembers, tells her about how strong her granddaughter had been — and how kind. The girl hadn't lost herself to that horrible place. He wanted her grandma to know. He wanted them all to know. The shifter wipes her eyes with an intricate handkerchief and nods when he finishes talking, hunkered with her palpable grief — but there's also something good there. Sam imagines it has to be worth something to her, to finally know the truth. To know what happened to the good witch of the south. Dean had talked about it before: the feeling of not knowing whether someone you love is alive or dead. Not knowing the truth of why they're suddenly gone forever from your life. Even if it means facing that they're gone, anything is better than never knowing.
"I'm sorry," he says, bowing his head. Lilly observes the two of them where she sits with round, curious eyes. "She sacrificed herself so that I could go on."
"Don't," she's quick to respond. Her tone is firm and full of years spent on thinking. "She wanted to protect you, and so she did. She was priceless and irreplaceable. And she had decided that you are, too." She leans in, pressing her quivering hand to Sam's chest, over his heart. "She was you, at the end of everything. And so, Mr. Winchester, a part of you is my grandbaby. I can never hate you. I could never."
Sam has to bite his lip, to keep himself together, while she leans back and closes her eyes with a sigh. She's grateful, and if he's honest, Sam didn't expect that. Not in the least. She tells him, "... Glenda's mother, my daughter — was killed last year by a group of hunters. I'm sorry you couldn't tell her what happened as well."
As if his heart couldn't lodge in his throat any more than it has.
"I... That's terrible, I'm..."
"No, it's alright." She takes a moment to recollect herself, hands in her lap. "After Glenda's disappearance, she had looked long and hard for her. Unfortunately, when it comes to us shifters, we have... our own afflictions, sometimes. It's as you'd find with any species, Mr. Winchester... We have our own weaknesses in mental health. I suppose to make up for our physical endurance... For many of us, we lose sight of ourselves the more we shift and the more we forget what we believe in. It's not uncommon for us to go mad, to be so fractured by what we absorb that we lose everything that made us seem human."
She takes a drink of her iced tea quietly, then, and Sam squeezes Lilly's hand in his own, glad to have her at his side, even if she can't completely grasp why they're here. Mildred continues sadly, "She had gone mad and had killed. I can't fault anyone for her death as well, no matter how much I wish I could. I could barely recognize her, and I know she would have had to be saved from herself eventually. I just... This house has gotten much more lonely since they've gone."
She casts a sweet smile at Lilly, though.
"This is your child, is she? Keep her close, Mr. Winchester. She's quiet, but I can tell she's a smart one."
"I will," he says when he finally finds his voice, sincerity heavy in his words. "I will."
Before they leave, though, Mildred has one request.
Just one, one Sam has no right to turn away; it's up to Lilly in the end, and as the old woman crouches down a little and shows his daughter the photo kept in a carefully polished frame, the old woman's eyes mist with longing and love and grief. Glenda is small in the picture, just a tiny thing in her mother's arms. She's smiling eternally in glossy print, not a care in the world, a fish frozen in time in her proud hands. Lilly looks over the image with that intensity she does any photo, and her hand slips from her mouth.
"If it's alright with you, Lilly..." Mildred says in nearly a whisper; her eyes are deep blue and rich with sadness. "I know it's just her face, and I know you're much younger than she had been, but if I could... just have one more time, to see her."
Just one more time. And Lilly is willing to give that to her, even if she doesn't understand how heavy such a request really is.
Sam sits at the kitchen table, close but so very far away in ways that aren't simply physical, watching little Glenda and Mildred at the oven as they bake chocolate chip cookies under the warmth of a big light fixture. Sam's not sure this is something he'll ever understand, the way shifters know one another so meticulously, so carefully, but he's glad that both of them have smiles on their faces.
"Whoa," Glenda gasps from where she's tip-toed on a stool, and laughs a little. "My dad never uses real flour!"
Sam chuckles under his breath, catching his lip between his teeth. The smell of a normal family wafts through the small one-story house, memories trickling through the hallways like muted melodies most people have forgotten. Mildred looks freed, though, stripped of the invisible chains that the monster ring had bound her very being with as well; she may not have been taken like her granddaughter or Sam had been, but now that he watches, he couldn't help but wonder if it would have been a kinder fate.
The chains around his wrists and ankles, they loosen, too.
Something good came from this. Something was put at ease, and while it's not nearly enough repair just yet, it is the best he's felt in months.
Maybe it's okay, to think things may get better.
Maybe it's okay, to believe you're gonna heal, sooner or later.
Little round-faced Glenda gives him a hot cookie on a plate, and they sit and talk just a little longer, about all sorts of things. Happy moments, and a shifter's advice to a helpless, hopeless man trying to raise one, and hesitant hopes for the future. And when they say their goodbyes to the sad, smiling grandmother, he scoops his child up in his arms, her legs wrapped around his narrow waist, fingers tangled up in the unruly hair on the nape of his neck as she hangs off him. They step off the porch and onto the sidewalk. She's warm and alive and hugging him fiercely with a smile buried in his neck, and he fiercely hugs her back. He'll do anything for her, and he'll do anything for Leia, and he'll make things right with Dean, and he'll fix himself for all of them, as best he can. They deserve someone whose gears aren't so rusted. Someone who offers everything he can. He's nothing as good as they are, but he wants to be, and so he'll try. He'll try his best. He promises.
"I'm so glad I found you," he says into her hair.
In a low voice, Lilly says back, "I found you first." And then, just as fondly, "It's okay if you don't use real flour."
They walk out from beneath the house's shadow, as he runs a hand over the crown of her head.
Light from the midday sun shimmers along the black roof of the Impala, as Dean and Leia wait eagerly for the rest of their family, ready to take them home at last.