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May. 29th, 2017 04:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dime_lioraTitle: Is It Over?
Author: dimeliora
Fandom: SPN. Sort of.
Wordcount: 5,835
Rating: PG (Strong Language)
Characters: Dean, Off-Screen Sam
Pairing(s): Mentioned Wincest
Disclaimer: This is not actually a fic. You see, I owe several very kind people stories. Stories that were started before October and in various states of progress before October 3rd. Since October 3rd I have been struggling with the most intense writer's block of my life. I have managed to squeeze out tiny bits of porn, but even that has ended. I just finished the first novel I've read for fun since I finished grad school a few years ago. I started it on the plane ride that actually happened two days after October 3rd. What follows from here is my explanation why I haven't touched anything since before October. The car ride didn't happen, I took the last plane into the hurricane, but the rest of it is brutally true. This is not technically a fanfic. This is an attempt to reclaim the part of me that has crawled away. I'm sorry for the self-indulgence. To all of you who I owe something to, I promise you I am working on getting it to you. I apologize so much for the long wait, you deserved better.
Dean sits on the side of the highway in Ohio staring at the cars zooming past and thinking that Sam better hope he doesn’t stop in South Carolina. He better hope he finds another case and another immediately after that keeps him traveling further and further out of Dean’s reach.
Because if he gets his hands on his brother right now he’s going to kill him.
It’s been seventeen hours since Dean woke up to find an empty parking space in front of their little motel room and an empty dent in the bed that once contained Sam. He’s been sitting on the side of 77 South for two hours watching cars ignore him.
Honestly he had hoped that this would go quickly. Some woman would get an eyeful and Dean would start on his journey south to follow Sam and his Baby. Instead he has only managed to get rained on. He’s pretty sure at this point he looks like a drowned rat. It’s almost time to steal a car.
Dean is so deep in thought that he misses the car slowing down and then stopping ahead of him. The horn honking is what makes him turn around to see the back end of a Toyota Corolla, taillights shining through the dark and the steady drizzle.
He grabs his bag and heads for the car, opting to close the trunk that has popped open and take what few weapons and protections he has left with him. The car is not roomy for someone his size, but he figures if he drops it in the back right behind him he won’t have to strain too much to get something out of it.
The woman behind the wheel is looking at him, no expectance in her face. She’s brunette, eyes matching the shade of her hair, and mostly unremarkable minus the dark circles under her eyes that indicate sleeplessness beyond a night or two. A thick wedding band sits on her left hand, some pattern inscribed in it that Dean can’t make out in the watery light from the side of the highway. The dome light is not on. Her mouth is curved into a smile that doesn’t reflect on the rest of her face.
“Hey. Hop in before my car gets even wetter.”
His shoes squelch loudly and he winces at the feel of his cold, wet clothes pressing harder against his skin. The woman notices, eyebrow quirking above her glasses, and then she turns the heat up.
“We’ll stop at a gas station so you can change.”
Dean puts the bag in the back next to a small backpack and a hanging gray dress. Just as the door closes she puts the car in drive and waits for an opening to pull back onto the highway. Canton is just behind them and the traffic is steady but not terrible.
“Thanks for the ride. I’m Dean.”
He holds out the hand with the silver testing ring and she takes it absently without reaction, her hand small and firm in his, before releasing and putting it back on the wheel. Journey is playing softly in the background as she accelerates to match the limit.
“Kristin. It’s nice to meet you too. And no problem. Weather is total shit.”
She falls silent, apparently not interested in Dean beyond stopping in the first place. Her eyes are focused on the road and Dean lets her focus as he studies the inside of the car. A cartoon figure hangs from her rearview mirror with a veteran’s poppy wrapped around its ankle. There’s a CD holder with a row of silver burned discs each with a number in black marker written on them on the visor on his side. Cigarette ashes, a coke can with condensation, and an ashtray are the only other obvious personal markers.
Dean immediately starts to fidget. He mutters Christo and she doesn’t even glance his way. He can feel the tension in the car, but he’s starting to think it’s not coming from him.
“So, how far south are you going?”
Kristin tilts her head and squints at an exit sign, studying her choices before switching lanes and heading for the exit ahead.
“South Carolina. You?”
Dean goes over his mental checklist of tests he has the resources to do. There’s still a couple he can pull off without getting kicked out of the car. Luck does not typically visit him this way.
“Uh. This will sound crazy but the same. McBee.”
Her mouth quirks, an honest smile that still doesn’t really hit her tired eyes.
“It’s pronounced Mack- Bee. You’re gonna stand out like a sore thumb saying it that way.”
“There’s always something that makes that happen.”
He’s not even sure why he says it, but something about her response eases the revving paranoia and makes him sit back a little bit in the seat. He pops back up to attention when his wet clothes press harder. Even if he changes he’s soaked the upholstery enough he’s going to be wet again when he gets back in.
That doesn’t stop him from letting her park at the gas station. He grabs his bag and jogs inside to the bathroom. A quick change and some paper towels and hand dryer application later and he doesn’t feel like a drowned rat anymore. He buys road snacks and then heads back out to the car to find her smoking, thumb rubbing absently at the butt of the cigarette and eyes locked on a smart phone.
She’s draped a picnic blanket over the seat. Dean slips in and feels the warm fuzzy side she’s turned out for him.
“Hey. Thanks. And sorry for soaking your car.”
Kristin thumbs the phone, digit swiping rapidly over the screen before she drops it in the cup holder that had a coke can the last time he was inside.
“You couldn’t help it.”
She starts the car up again, the Garmin on her windshield barking orders as she gets them back on the highway. Journey has become Pink Floyd.
“You burn this?”
It’s obvious she doesn’t want to talk to him, but Dean has never been good at respecting those sorts of needs when he gets antsy, and he is definitely antsy. Sam is gone and his Baby is with him. Off on a case they didn’t research enough, alone, after a fight that is entirely Sam’s fault.
“Yeah.”
“Good choice in music.”
There’s silence for a second, a beat of nothing that leaves the compliment hanging awkwardly in the air as her face visibly processes the words. And then her eyes light up a little, and her mouth curls again in a smile that takes over her whole face.
“It is.”
“Let me guess, parents were fans of classic rock?”
Kristin shakes her head and outs her cigarette in the ashtray. She rolls up the window and licks her lips.
“Yes and no. My parents were all about soft rock. Beatles, Eagles, Cream. That sort of thing. This is actually from my brother. He taught me Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin and so many others.”
Dean can’t help the smug smile that pops up at that.
“Older brothers always know better.”
“He’s younger than me by a year.”
The wind goes out of Dean’s sails and she apparently sees it. She laughs once, a complicated twist to her mouth when it happens, and then she falls back into silence as she looks at the road.
“Well, I guess little brothers can figure it out sometimes.”
Kristin nods, fingers playing over the wheel again, stroking the cigarette pack in the door briefly before they return to their post.
“Yeah. Sometimes.”
They don’t talk until the next stop.
In Marietta at the border she stops and gets out to gas up. Dean uses this time to dump his snack wrappers and consider how much further ahead Sam is than him. With no stops the drive is a little under ten hours. Sam will need gas at least three times, and without Dean he’ll stop for meals at places that will feed him rabbit food.
They certainly aren’t going to catch him, but Dean will probably get there before Sam can get himself into more trouble.
Kristin texts the entire time she’s gassing up the car, and then she leans in to the passenger door and catches his eye.
“I’m gonna go inside and use the bathroom. Grab some peanuts and coke. You need anything?”
“No I’m good. Thank you. For that and this.”
It will never fail to amuse him how utterly careless civilians are. He almost feels bad for the woman honestly, because she shouldn’t have ever picked him up in the first place and now she’s leaving her car alone with him.
He digs into her glove box the moment she’s out of sight, dialing Sam at the same time. It rings through to voicemail and Dean lets it rip even as he digs through car registration, a box of tampons, some sort of costume ears, and eighteen unopened packets of chopsticks.
“Sam. You’re a dead man. You hear me? You LEFT me in Ohio, you stole my BABY, and you’re just generally being a prick. What were you thinking huh? Putting yourself in danger again? You never learn from anything.”
Dean closes the glove box when he sees her at the counter paying and pointing out more cigarettes.
“I’m gonna catch up to you.”
He hangs up and puts the phone away as she exits. When Kristin slides into the driver’s seat she looks even more tired than she did when she got out. It’s hard to gauge how old she is because she’s got a baby’s face and an old woman’s expression.
“Ok. Let’s get moving.”
“So. Why are you going down South?”
Kristin is in the process of lighting a cigarette when he asks. She stops, lighter at the tip, and Dean wonders if maybe she’s a little too sleep deprived to be driving.
“My brother. The one I mentioned. I’m going to see him.”
“Did you grow up there?”
She swallows, lights the cigarette, and then takes a drink from the coke can.
“Yeah. My parents are from Ohio but I was born and raised in South Carolina. Just a little bit further down the road than McBee. I moved up here a couple years ago to be closer to distant family. I was tired of having it be a year or two or three since I’d seen someone and then coming for a funeral.”
Her voice starts light, recitation that Dean can tell is old and practiced, but at the end something bitter creeps in.
“And your brother stayed?”
“Oh. No I’m sorry. I can see how that’s confusing. Andrew is not blood family. When I was fifteen I was. My father disowned me. Andrew was my best friend and he just made me family. His dad became my dad, we spent all our time at each other’s houses, he became my brother.”
“A grumpy old man told me once that family doesn’t end in blood.”
She coughs once, then takes a drag from the cigarette before tapping the ashes out of the window.
“Your grumpy old man was right. So yeah. Andrew is in South Carolina with all of his family. It’s been a year and a day since I saw him.”
Dean tilts his head. The Southern inflection creeps in occasionally, but for the most part her accent is as neutral as her expression.
“That’s pretty specific.”
“Google photos popped up a ‘one year ago today’ thing this morning as I was getting ready to travel. It had the pictures of us eating together. The day before I drove home last time.”
“What’s a google photos?”
She side eyes him, her right hand stroking the wheel and her left hand manipulating the cigarette.
“How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
She nods and taps her ashes out of the window into the swirling winds outside.
“It’s an app on your phone. It stores the photos in the Google cloud and then it waits until the anniversary to remind you what you were doing however long ago.”
“Can other people see them?”
“If you share them yeah. But I mean it’s on the internet, so who really knows? Just best to avoid naked pictures in case.”
Dean laughs, and in the dim light of the dashboard controls he can see a ghost of a smile echo over her face.
“You want to see him?”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
She manipulates the phone half blind, eyes mostly on the road as her fingers move from memory, and then she holds it out to Dean. The notification bar at the top is filled with icons Dean doesn’t recognize and then one he does in the form of text messages. He hits the picture and then zooms in because Sam taught him how to do that.
It’s a diner, Dean knows the style well enough to recognize the interior instantly. He can bet the food is greasy and amazing without having to taste it. She’s not in the picture, but he can see an older man in a golf visor sitting next to a young woman with a baby in her arms. On the other side of the table is a scrawny man with his hair shaved close and a guy with short and fluffy hair and a scruffy beard.
“He’s the one with the beard. His dad, who is by extension my dad, is the guy in the visor. Ben.”
Dean studies it for a long minute before holding it back out to her. She turns the phone off abruptly without looking and puts it back in the cup holder.
“They’re a good looking group. And that’s a good looking restaurant.”
She nods, a finger straying up to her mouth that she instantly starts chewing on. Five minutes later she clears her throat and speaks again.
“Yeah. That’s Venus. If you make it into Florence I suggest it. Great fucking greasy spoon food.”
Dean stops pushing. Something has gone wrong, and he’s not a hundred percent sure he wants to know what. They’re officially in West Virginia, and the little car starts climbing hills with some difficulty as they rocket through the night.
“So why are you going to McBee? It’s not really a tourist spot.”
Dean is startled out of reverie, his eyes locked on the woods and jagged rock face hurtling past out of the window. He doesn’t get to sit in the passenger seat very often. He’s not finding it very enjoyable.
This is where Sam would call him a control freak. This is where Sam would make a bitchface about not being able to drive more.
He cycles through potential lies that would make sense before giving up. He won’t see her again. It can’t hurt anything.
“My little brother. Actually. He took off with the car and left me after a fight. That was his fault.”
Dean remembers to add the last statement a little late. She’s chewing on her thumb again, and eventually she disengages the digit from her mouth and lights another cigarette. The air coming through the window is slightly warmer than it was in Ohio, and Dean is glad his boots are finally starting to feel a little dried out.
“Tell me about him?”
She doesn’t look over when she asks it, but there’s a hint of desperation to her voice. Dean pauses at the sound of it before nodding.
“He’s smart, he’s a huge bitch about everything, he’s obsessed with rabbit food. His name is Sam. He’s good at talking people into things and making them feel better. He’s got this face. It just makes people go along with whatever he wants. But he never listens when I know better.”
“The Sybil.”
“What?”
“It’s something Andrew always says. Whenever he was making a bad decision I would tell him that he shouldn’t do it, and he would do it anyway, and then it would go bad and he would tell me ‘You were right Krissy.’”
She falls silent, eyes locked on something out in the darkness, further than the headlights can reach. Dean feels that tension creeping up, mixed with a slight dread.
“But Sybil?”
“Oh. Shit yeah. Sorry. It’s a mythology thing. Cassandra was a Sybil technically because she made prophecies but Apollo cursed her so no one would believe her. It was a joke.”
“Your brother sounds smart.”
Her hands clench on the wheel, cigarette locked in between tight lips, and then she ashes it out of the window again and swallows.
“Oh yeah. Andrew? Genius. Just. Like he gets bored, and then he decides to pick up a hobby. But the hobby is something people learn to do for a living and he just does casually. So, for example, this music you’re hearing? Andrew played all of it. Great guitar player. And he decided that none of the modern pedals did it right so he just went on the internet and taught himself to solder circuit boards together and build guitar pedals. And then he would play with them for a bit before selling them on the internet and moving on to the next set of pedals.”
“Holy shit. That’s impressive.”
“He’s on YouTube. Well, he published on YouTube, it’s not like he’s YouTube famous or anything. When we stop, if you want, you can listen to him doing Dylan or some blues.”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
His answer pleases her, a smile that is honest and tired spreading out widely as she looks his way.
“Good choice Dean.”
“I’m known for those.”
Her lips quirk and she turns back to the road.
“I get the sense that’s a joke.”
“Sometimes.”
Dean thinks of Sam. He thinks of Sam pushing and pushing until Dean can’t take it anymore. He thinks of Sam pretending to go to sleep and instead stealing the car.
He certainly didn’t make a good choice leaving the keys out.
She falls silent again and Dean lets her. He checks his phone and finds no responses from Sam in his messages and no missed calls. He could not be more furious.
Boston melts into a band Dean doesn’t know but likes the sound of, and then changes over to a Zeppelin song Dean knows but rarely hears.
“’Bron-Y-Aur Stomp’? Really?”
Kristin tilts her head, face inscrutable in the dark, and then she smiles enough that Dean can see.
“Yeah. When I had my wisdom teeth taken out he practiced the song over and over. This and ‘Blackbird’. It was my favorite. Just a nice little song about a man and his dog.”
“My dad loved this song.”
How long has it been since Dean mentioned their father? He and Sam don’t talk about it. Have fallen silent on the subject as much as possible since their last fight about it. How many topics are minefields for them now?
“Yeah? I don’t know if my father knows this song. Fuck him anyway.”
Dean laughs at the tone in her voice, surprisingly casual considering the topic, and then taps the dashboard.
“You ever hear the story of the groupie and the fish?”
“Yeah Andrew told me that one. But it was pretty exaggerated right?”
Dean nods, watches her light up again, and then settles back in the seat.
“I’ve tried a thousand times to teach Sam all of this stuff. I told him a million stories and I don’t think he kept a single one. Not his bag. He’s got a big old brain all filled with lore and law, but none of the good stuff.”
She flicks her high beams on.
“Everybody has something they want to know. Something they’re really good at remembering. With Andrew it was history and music. With me it’s plots. With you it’s pop culture it seems.”
Dean turns his head.
“All of pop culture?”
“You have affected a large number of mannerisms from movie and tv characters. So yeah. I’d say all of it.”
Dean shifts.
“I didn’t think you were paying attention.”
“I’m distracted, but not enough to not pay attention to the strange man I let in my car in the middle of the night.”
“Fair enough.”
“Your brother still hasn’t responded?”
Dean’s hand strays to his pocket. Rubs the outline of the phone through the denim before he finds the right response.
“No but I kind of expected that. He’s pretty pissed.”
“You should always avoid going to bed angry or fighting before a trip.”
Her voice is heavy, thick, and she taps her cigarette and then takes a very long pull.
He knows that he shouldn’t ask. That’s a line that offers no questioning.
Dean’s never been good at not doing that either.
“You speaking from experience?”
There’s a noise, something in her throat like a click, and then she coughs until she must be teary eyed. The cigarette gets more attention though.
“No. No I’m not.”
“Ok.”
But it’s starting to come together. Dean did poorly in literature classes. Never saw the point in looking at symbols in fiction when he had to study them so often in real life.
On the other hand, he was just fine at verb tenses.
He looks over his shoulder at the gray dress hanging so neatly from the hook above the door. At the backpack carelessly dropped on the seat and no doubt full of clothes wadded into tiny balls.
She doesn’t talk, and Dean holds on to the train of thought as they barrel up a mountain and towards Charleston.
They stop at the border, right after crossing into Virginia, and she hands him her phone with a Youtube video loaded up before disappearing into the gas station. Dean hits play. There’s only a static image, the young man from the earlier photo, but the music is good. Voice a little off but guitar strong and sweet.
“See That My Grave Is Kept Clean”. Blind Lemon Johnson.
Dean puts the phone carefully down on the seat before looking back at his own. Still no Sam. Anger is starting to turn into anxiety.
When she comes back out and slips into the driver’s seat Dean throws caution to the wind and calls Sam. Let her hear what she hears.
“Sammy. You fucking text me. I know you’re angry but just send a message man. Just let me know what the hell is happening with you.”
Kristin doesn’t talk about the call. They continue on, her eyes focused on something off in the distance, something beyond the road, and Dean is content to tap his feet and slap his thighs to the music and the growing dread.
And then, out of nowhere, she blindsides him again.
“You should leave him a nicer message.”
“Sweetheart, that is nice for us.”
She laughs at that too. Sad. So sad. And Dean can’t help himself anymore.
“It happen a while ago or just now?”
Her face crumples, briefly, illuminated by lights over the road in intermittent spurts. It smooths out and then crumples again as her voice breaks and then clears.
“Two days ago.”
“Mind if I ask how?”
Who knows. Maybe Dean has stumbled on another part of the case. She lived near McBee. It could happen.
“GVHD.”
Dean casts a net through his memory, tries to come up with something, and ends up simply staring at her. After an uncomfortably long silence she seems to realize he isn’t aware of what that is. She lights another cigarette, and Dean thinks he’ll be coughing before the trip is over.
“He had cancer. Acute myeloid leukemia. Went into remission and out of remission and then they said ‘get a bone marrow transplant’ and he did. And then he.”
She stops. Her hand rubs her face, eyes first and then mouth in a motion that is fully recovering alcoholic despite the fact she has no indicators. Probably a gesture she picked up from someone else.
“He started suffering from graft versus host disease. GVHD. It rotted out both of his hips. His teeth. Shut his esophagus down and then they had to shorten it. His stomach was up in his chest when he died. And then. And then he started having trouble breathing and he was gonna see a pulmonologist on Monday. His dad, my better adopted dad, said goodbye in the morning and then called to check on him an hour and a half later. He didn’t answer so Be-he died. Pulmonary embolism.”
“Jesus Christ. How old was he?”
“Thirty. He was thirty.”
Dean falls silent. His thumb is rubbing reflexively on his phone. He’s thinking of yelling at Sam. Of telling Sam that he’s useless in high stress situations because he just runs.
“Did you guys fight before that?”
She shakes her head, her mouth pulled into a line so tight her lips have disappeared. She’s about as pretty of a crier as Sammy.
It’s not a generous thought, but Dean feels anxiety building inside of him and he can’t help it.
“No. Sunday he was. I was gonna see him in two weeks. But. But it didn’t happen. He was practicing my favorite Dylan song. He was really excited.”
Dean shakes his head. He’s seen a lot of tragedy over the years. Widows and widowers, family members mourning losses, partners staring at corpses. Every story is the same and slightly different. Each one is a sad little self-contained universe that always ends with the same question. Why?
“I’m so sorry.”
She nods. Shakes her head. Nods again.
“Me too.”
They ride through the rest of Virginia in silence. Dean starts texting Sam again when the sun comes up.
She stops in North Carolina in a town called Troutman. The driveway into the gas station is bumpy as hell, and Dean needs to piss really bad. He heads into the bathroom and is just starting when his phone rings. He fumbles, juggling his dick in one hand and his phone in the other. It’s Sam.
Dean misses it by one ring. He fights to stay calm as he calls back and goes straight to voicemail. He calls again and gets the same. After his third attempt the phone dings and Dean has a voicemail.
“I’m fine. I’m there. Where are you?”
Dean texts Sam back, sick of listening to the voicemail message and sick of not knowing what’s happening with his brother.
North Carolina. Hitched a ride. Stay there.
Sam doesn’t bother to respond and Dean rushes back out to see Kristin standing next to the car staring at the sun. She’s put on sunglasses that point out how pale and tired she looks.
“He’s ok.”
It’s preempted by nothing but she seems to understand.
“Well let’s get moving. I’ll drive fast. I hate this state.”
The car starts up easily and they’re back on 77 south. It feels like they’ve been on it for an eternity. Dean’s mouth starts moving, separate and living without him.
“He walks. Every time we fight he walks. And you know, at some point, he shouldn’t be let off the hook for that. At some point he should be forced to fucking stay. Because that’s all I’ve ever been able to do you know? Stay. Stay waiting for Sammy. Stay hoping for Sammy. And I’m fucking sick of it.”
Kristin nods thoughtfully. He can see her expressions clearly now. They’re a little distant. A little blanked out. He figures she’s hitting the shock portion of the process.
“I’ll tell you a story. It’s not a good story. I was an English major. I really like stories.”
Dean fingers the outline of the phone in his pocket again and nods.
“When Andrew went into remission the first time it was like a miracle. We all relaxed. We just did. Because he was Andrew and he’d never been knocked down before in a way he couldn’t get up from. But this one night he gets drunk. Not a little drunk but utterly fucking plastered. And I love him, but even he admits he has a drinking problem. So this night he goes home from my house, we lived about three minutes apart, and he throws his keys. I get a call from another friend of ours to come get them both inside. It’s like, four or five in the morning I think, and there he is on the chair outside his garage covered in his own vomit and raging. I had work in a couple hours and I was furious. I got them both inside, couldn’t find the keys, had to wake his parents, and got him upstairs. Cleaned him off, tucked him into bed, and got my shit to go home again. And then Andrew reached out and grabbed my arm. And you know, I can’t stop thinking of this. Since I moved away Andrew has called me a lot to tell me how bad he needs me or how bad he misses me. To tell me I was an asshole for leaving but he understood or to tell me he was never gonna make it out of our hometown. But in this moment, for the first time since I’d met him, I think. You know they say everybody has a moment or two of something unnatural. Psychic or whatever. And Andrew grabbed my arm and he said, ‘Don’t leave me Krissy. I’m dying.’”
She stops. Well. Her voice stops but her mouth keeps going for a moment on soundless air. Dean’s clutching his cell phone at this point.
“And I thought that was so stupid. I told him too. I told him to shut up and go to sleep I’d see him at work. And two weeks later they said the cancer was back. And then they scheduled the bone marrow transplant during his second chemo round.”
“You shouldn’t feel guilty about that.”
Dean can’t see her eyes, but he can feel her gaze cut over to him.
“He was so grateful that I was coming. He was so excited. And I was excited too. You give yourself to someone you love. You give until you can’t anymore, or until they can’t anymore. Andrew had a lot of problems. He wasn’t happy with his life, he suffered through more than I can ever imagine. He had an alcohol problem before he got sick and it got worse after he got treated. He was a little spoiled, very abrasive. These are all honest truths. And I watched people blow him off and refuse to talk to him. But for some of us he was utterly priceless, because in all that ridiculous shit there were these moments where the most generous and kind person you could ever ask for would shine through. Because he had a capacity for forgiving greater than his temper. For the rest of my life I have to live with the guilt of leaving him. Even if that’s not what he wanted. For the rest of my life I have to live with the fact that he needed me and I wasn’t there. That a phone call or a text message was what I could give him. The logic of the matter, that you give what you can, that I visited him a ton of times and he never came to see me, the logic doesn’t count anymore because all that’s left is the ghost of the loss. A distorted and strange version of the bond we once had. Echoing forever into a void where I can talk but he can’t listen or respond.”
Dean watches her hand, shaking, pull out a cigarette and put it in her mouth. She swallows hard before she lights it.
“Never stop forgiving your brother for walking away. And never stop staying. Because eventually he’s gonna stop going and you’re going to find that staying is just fine. Enjoy it while you have it Dean. Once it’s gone it can’t be brought back.”
There’s a few ways Dean knows that would prove her wrong. He suggests none of them.
By the time they cross the North Carolina, South Carolina border the silence has gone on a really long time. Dean has had a lot to think about.
While she’s not exactly right, that you can’t get it back, Dean can see the truth in the statement. With every return from death they seem to have grown further apart. Lies and tensions building between the two of them. And whenever it seems like Sam is reaching out to close that gap Dean is always too angry to reach back.
He starts to wonder who’s really been leaving who.
The signs tell him McBee is coming up. Dean has one last question for her.
“What was it?”
“What was what?”
“The Dylan song he was practicing?”
Her face stops for a moment. Thoughtful. And then she smiles big and bright.
“’One More Cup of Coffee’. It was one of the only ones I liked actually. Andrew never won me over with Dylan.”
She stops outside of a gas station and Dean gathers his bag.
On a whim, sudden and overwhelming, Dean leans over and kisses her forehead. She looks utterly shocked.
“Your brother was loved. I can tell that. I bet he was aware of it too. I’m going to fix things with Sammy.”
Kristin nods, swallows, and then shoos him with her hands. He closes the door behind him and watches the car pause for a moment before it pulls back onto the main road and glides out of sight.
There’s a scary looking little motel on the edge of the tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Dean finds his Baby sitting outside it and picks the room two doors down. Knocks once and waits.
When Sam answers the door Dean steps in and wraps both arms around his little brother before he can react to Dean’s presence. Before he can say something that will break Dean’s resolve.
Sam is whipcord tight for the first few minutes. Then he melts in Dean’s arms, wrapping his own around and clapping Dean’s back hard with one giant hand. They stand there, breeze pressing against them and chests pressed close enough that Dean can feel the beat of Sam’s heart against his own.
“I’m sorry.”
His little brother make a surprised noise.
“I didn’t know you knew that word.”
“Shut up.”
They finally pull into the room. Sam has the TV running, a news report about the highways shutting down and a hurricane blowing in playing as they both take the bed away from the door and settle in. Dean figures the case can either be wrapped up before or wait until the storm blows out.
Dean figures they’ll both be staying either way.
Author: dimeliora
Fandom: SPN. Sort of.
Wordcount: 5,835
Rating: PG (Strong Language)
Characters: Dean, Off-Screen Sam
Pairing(s): Mentioned Wincest
Disclaimer: This is not actually a fic. You see, I owe several very kind people stories. Stories that were started before October and in various states of progress before October 3rd. Since October 3rd I have been struggling with the most intense writer's block of my life. I have managed to squeeze out tiny bits of porn, but even that has ended. I just finished the first novel I've read for fun since I finished grad school a few years ago. I started it on the plane ride that actually happened two days after October 3rd. What follows from here is my explanation why I haven't touched anything since before October. The car ride didn't happen, I took the last plane into the hurricane, but the rest of it is brutally true. This is not technically a fanfic. This is an attempt to reclaim the part of me that has crawled away. I'm sorry for the self-indulgence. To all of you who I owe something to, I promise you I am working on getting it to you. I apologize so much for the long wait, you deserved better.
Is it over?
Did it end while I was gone?
'Cause my shoulders
Couldn’t hold that weight for long
And it all just feels the same
Somebody better let me know my name
Before I give myself away
Somebody better show me how I feel
'Cause I know I’m not at the wheel
Did it end while I was gone?
'Cause my shoulders
Couldn’t hold that weight for long
And it all just feels the same
Somebody better let me know my name
Before I give myself away
Somebody better show me how I feel
'Cause I know I’m not at the wheel
Dean sits on the side of the highway in Ohio staring at the cars zooming past and thinking that Sam better hope he doesn’t stop in South Carolina. He better hope he finds another case and another immediately after that keeps him traveling further and further out of Dean’s reach.
Because if he gets his hands on his brother right now he’s going to kill him.
It’s been seventeen hours since Dean woke up to find an empty parking space in front of their little motel room and an empty dent in the bed that once contained Sam. He’s been sitting on the side of 77 South for two hours watching cars ignore him.
Honestly he had hoped that this would go quickly. Some woman would get an eyeful and Dean would start on his journey south to follow Sam and his Baby. Instead he has only managed to get rained on. He’s pretty sure at this point he looks like a drowned rat. It’s almost time to steal a car.
Dean is so deep in thought that he misses the car slowing down and then stopping ahead of him. The horn honking is what makes him turn around to see the back end of a Toyota Corolla, taillights shining through the dark and the steady drizzle.
He grabs his bag and heads for the car, opting to close the trunk that has popped open and take what few weapons and protections he has left with him. The car is not roomy for someone his size, but he figures if he drops it in the back right behind him he won’t have to strain too much to get something out of it.
The woman behind the wheel is looking at him, no expectance in her face. She’s brunette, eyes matching the shade of her hair, and mostly unremarkable minus the dark circles under her eyes that indicate sleeplessness beyond a night or two. A thick wedding band sits on her left hand, some pattern inscribed in it that Dean can’t make out in the watery light from the side of the highway. The dome light is not on. Her mouth is curved into a smile that doesn’t reflect on the rest of her face.
“Hey. Hop in before my car gets even wetter.”
His shoes squelch loudly and he winces at the feel of his cold, wet clothes pressing harder against his skin. The woman notices, eyebrow quirking above her glasses, and then she turns the heat up.
“We’ll stop at a gas station so you can change.”
Dean puts the bag in the back next to a small backpack and a hanging gray dress. Just as the door closes she puts the car in drive and waits for an opening to pull back onto the highway. Canton is just behind them and the traffic is steady but not terrible.
“Thanks for the ride. I’m Dean.”
He holds out the hand with the silver testing ring and she takes it absently without reaction, her hand small and firm in his, before releasing and putting it back on the wheel. Journey is playing softly in the background as she accelerates to match the limit.
“Kristin. It’s nice to meet you too. And no problem. Weather is total shit.”
She falls silent, apparently not interested in Dean beyond stopping in the first place. Her eyes are focused on the road and Dean lets her focus as he studies the inside of the car. A cartoon figure hangs from her rearview mirror with a veteran’s poppy wrapped around its ankle. There’s a CD holder with a row of silver burned discs each with a number in black marker written on them on the visor on his side. Cigarette ashes, a coke can with condensation, and an ashtray are the only other obvious personal markers.
Dean immediately starts to fidget. He mutters Christo and she doesn’t even glance his way. He can feel the tension in the car, but he’s starting to think it’s not coming from him.
“So, how far south are you going?”
Kristin tilts her head and squints at an exit sign, studying her choices before switching lanes and heading for the exit ahead.
“South Carolina. You?”
Dean goes over his mental checklist of tests he has the resources to do. There’s still a couple he can pull off without getting kicked out of the car. Luck does not typically visit him this way.
“Uh. This will sound crazy but the same. McBee.”
Her mouth quirks, an honest smile that still doesn’t really hit her tired eyes.
“It’s pronounced Mack- Bee. You’re gonna stand out like a sore thumb saying it that way.”
“There’s always something that makes that happen.”
He’s not even sure why he says it, but something about her response eases the revving paranoia and makes him sit back a little bit in the seat. He pops back up to attention when his wet clothes press harder. Even if he changes he’s soaked the upholstery enough he’s going to be wet again when he gets back in.
That doesn’t stop him from letting her park at the gas station. He grabs his bag and jogs inside to the bathroom. A quick change and some paper towels and hand dryer application later and he doesn’t feel like a drowned rat anymore. He buys road snacks and then heads back out to the car to find her smoking, thumb rubbing absently at the butt of the cigarette and eyes locked on a smart phone.
She’s draped a picnic blanket over the seat. Dean slips in and feels the warm fuzzy side she’s turned out for him.
“Hey. Thanks. And sorry for soaking your car.”
Kristin thumbs the phone, digit swiping rapidly over the screen before she drops it in the cup holder that had a coke can the last time he was inside.
“You couldn’t help it.”
She starts the car up again, the Garmin on her windshield barking orders as she gets them back on the highway. Journey has become Pink Floyd.
“You burn this?”
It’s obvious she doesn’t want to talk to him, but Dean has never been good at respecting those sorts of needs when he gets antsy, and he is definitely antsy. Sam is gone and his Baby is with him. Off on a case they didn’t research enough, alone, after a fight that is entirely Sam’s fault.
“Yeah.”
“Good choice in music.”
There’s silence for a second, a beat of nothing that leaves the compliment hanging awkwardly in the air as her face visibly processes the words. And then her eyes light up a little, and her mouth curls again in a smile that takes over her whole face.
“It is.”
“Let me guess, parents were fans of classic rock?”
Kristin shakes her head and outs her cigarette in the ashtray. She rolls up the window and licks her lips.
“Yes and no. My parents were all about soft rock. Beatles, Eagles, Cream. That sort of thing. This is actually from my brother. He taught me Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin and so many others.”
Dean can’t help the smug smile that pops up at that.
“Older brothers always know better.”
“He’s younger than me by a year.”
The wind goes out of Dean’s sails and she apparently sees it. She laughs once, a complicated twist to her mouth when it happens, and then she falls back into silence as she looks at the road.
“Well, I guess little brothers can figure it out sometimes.”
Kristin nods, fingers playing over the wheel again, stroking the cigarette pack in the door briefly before they return to their post.
“Yeah. Sometimes.”
They don’t talk until the next stop.
In Marietta at the border she stops and gets out to gas up. Dean uses this time to dump his snack wrappers and consider how much further ahead Sam is than him. With no stops the drive is a little under ten hours. Sam will need gas at least three times, and without Dean he’ll stop for meals at places that will feed him rabbit food.
They certainly aren’t going to catch him, but Dean will probably get there before Sam can get himself into more trouble.
Kristin texts the entire time she’s gassing up the car, and then she leans in to the passenger door and catches his eye.
“I’m gonna go inside and use the bathroom. Grab some peanuts and coke. You need anything?”
“No I’m good. Thank you. For that and this.”
It will never fail to amuse him how utterly careless civilians are. He almost feels bad for the woman honestly, because she shouldn’t have ever picked him up in the first place and now she’s leaving her car alone with him.
He digs into her glove box the moment she’s out of sight, dialing Sam at the same time. It rings through to voicemail and Dean lets it rip even as he digs through car registration, a box of tampons, some sort of costume ears, and eighteen unopened packets of chopsticks.
“Sam. You’re a dead man. You hear me? You LEFT me in Ohio, you stole my BABY, and you’re just generally being a prick. What were you thinking huh? Putting yourself in danger again? You never learn from anything.”
Dean closes the glove box when he sees her at the counter paying and pointing out more cigarettes.
“I’m gonna catch up to you.”
He hangs up and puts the phone away as she exits. When Kristin slides into the driver’s seat she looks even more tired than she did when she got out. It’s hard to gauge how old she is because she’s got a baby’s face and an old woman’s expression.
“Ok. Let’s get moving.”
“So. Why are you going down South?”
Kristin is in the process of lighting a cigarette when he asks. She stops, lighter at the tip, and Dean wonders if maybe she’s a little too sleep deprived to be driving.
“My brother. The one I mentioned. I’m going to see him.”
“Did you grow up there?”
She swallows, lights the cigarette, and then takes a drink from the coke can.
“Yeah. My parents are from Ohio but I was born and raised in South Carolina. Just a little bit further down the road than McBee. I moved up here a couple years ago to be closer to distant family. I was tired of having it be a year or two or three since I’d seen someone and then coming for a funeral.”
Her voice starts light, recitation that Dean can tell is old and practiced, but at the end something bitter creeps in.
“And your brother stayed?”
“Oh. No I’m sorry. I can see how that’s confusing. Andrew is not blood family. When I was fifteen I was. My father disowned me. Andrew was my best friend and he just made me family. His dad became my dad, we spent all our time at each other’s houses, he became my brother.”
“A grumpy old man told me once that family doesn’t end in blood.”
She coughs once, then takes a drag from the cigarette before tapping the ashes out of the window.
“Your grumpy old man was right. So yeah. Andrew is in South Carolina with all of his family. It’s been a year and a day since I saw him.”
Dean tilts his head. The Southern inflection creeps in occasionally, but for the most part her accent is as neutral as her expression.
“That’s pretty specific.”
“Google photos popped up a ‘one year ago today’ thing this morning as I was getting ready to travel. It had the pictures of us eating together. The day before I drove home last time.”
“What’s a google photos?”
She side eyes him, her right hand stroking the wheel and her left hand manipulating the cigarette.
“How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
She nods and taps her ashes out of the window into the swirling winds outside.
“It’s an app on your phone. It stores the photos in the Google cloud and then it waits until the anniversary to remind you what you were doing however long ago.”
“Can other people see them?”
“If you share them yeah. But I mean it’s on the internet, so who really knows? Just best to avoid naked pictures in case.”
Dean laughs, and in the dim light of the dashboard controls he can see a ghost of a smile echo over her face.
“You want to see him?”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
She manipulates the phone half blind, eyes mostly on the road as her fingers move from memory, and then she holds it out to Dean. The notification bar at the top is filled with icons Dean doesn’t recognize and then one he does in the form of text messages. He hits the picture and then zooms in because Sam taught him how to do that.
It’s a diner, Dean knows the style well enough to recognize the interior instantly. He can bet the food is greasy and amazing without having to taste it. She’s not in the picture, but he can see an older man in a golf visor sitting next to a young woman with a baby in her arms. On the other side of the table is a scrawny man with his hair shaved close and a guy with short and fluffy hair and a scruffy beard.
“He’s the one with the beard. His dad, who is by extension my dad, is the guy in the visor. Ben.”
Dean studies it for a long minute before holding it back out to her. She turns the phone off abruptly without looking and puts it back in the cup holder.
“They’re a good looking group. And that’s a good looking restaurant.”
She nods, a finger straying up to her mouth that she instantly starts chewing on. Five minutes later she clears her throat and speaks again.
“Yeah. That’s Venus. If you make it into Florence I suggest it. Great fucking greasy spoon food.”
Dean stops pushing. Something has gone wrong, and he’s not a hundred percent sure he wants to know what. They’re officially in West Virginia, and the little car starts climbing hills with some difficulty as they rocket through the night.
“So why are you going to McBee? It’s not really a tourist spot.”
Dean is startled out of reverie, his eyes locked on the woods and jagged rock face hurtling past out of the window. He doesn’t get to sit in the passenger seat very often. He’s not finding it very enjoyable.
This is where Sam would call him a control freak. This is where Sam would make a bitchface about not being able to drive more.
He cycles through potential lies that would make sense before giving up. He won’t see her again. It can’t hurt anything.
“My little brother. Actually. He took off with the car and left me after a fight. That was his fault.”
Dean remembers to add the last statement a little late. She’s chewing on her thumb again, and eventually she disengages the digit from her mouth and lights another cigarette. The air coming through the window is slightly warmer than it was in Ohio, and Dean is glad his boots are finally starting to feel a little dried out.
“Tell me about him?”
She doesn’t look over when she asks it, but there’s a hint of desperation to her voice. Dean pauses at the sound of it before nodding.
“He’s smart, he’s a huge bitch about everything, he’s obsessed with rabbit food. His name is Sam. He’s good at talking people into things and making them feel better. He’s got this face. It just makes people go along with whatever he wants. But he never listens when I know better.”
“The Sybil.”
“What?”
“It’s something Andrew always says. Whenever he was making a bad decision I would tell him that he shouldn’t do it, and he would do it anyway, and then it would go bad and he would tell me ‘You were right Krissy.’”
She falls silent, eyes locked on something out in the darkness, further than the headlights can reach. Dean feels that tension creeping up, mixed with a slight dread.
“But Sybil?”
“Oh. Shit yeah. Sorry. It’s a mythology thing. Cassandra was a Sybil technically because she made prophecies but Apollo cursed her so no one would believe her. It was a joke.”
“Your brother sounds smart.”
Her hands clench on the wheel, cigarette locked in between tight lips, and then she ashes it out of the window again and swallows.
“Oh yeah. Andrew? Genius. Just. Like he gets bored, and then he decides to pick up a hobby. But the hobby is something people learn to do for a living and he just does casually. So, for example, this music you’re hearing? Andrew played all of it. Great guitar player. And he decided that none of the modern pedals did it right so he just went on the internet and taught himself to solder circuit boards together and build guitar pedals. And then he would play with them for a bit before selling them on the internet and moving on to the next set of pedals.”
“Holy shit. That’s impressive.”
“He’s on YouTube. Well, he published on YouTube, it’s not like he’s YouTube famous or anything. When we stop, if you want, you can listen to him doing Dylan or some blues.”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
His answer pleases her, a smile that is honest and tired spreading out widely as she looks his way.
“Good choice Dean.”
“I’m known for those.”
Her lips quirk and she turns back to the road.
“I get the sense that’s a joke.”
“Sometimes.”
Dean thinks of Sam. He thinks of Sam pushing and pushing until Dean can’t take it anymore. He thinks of Sam pretending to go to sleep and instead stealing the car.
He certainly didn’t make a good choice leaving the keys out.
She falls silent again and Dean lets her. He checks his phone and finds no responses from Sam in his messages and no missed calls. He could not be more furious.
Boston melts into a band Dean doesn’t know but likes the sound of, and then changes over to a Zeppelin song Dean knows but rarely hears.
“’Bron-Y-Aur Stomp’? Really?”
Kristin tilts her head, face inscrutable in the dark, and then she smiles enough that Dean can see.
“Yeah. When I had my wisdom teeth taken out he practiced the song over and over. This and ‘Blackbird’. It was my favorite. Just a nice little song about a man and his dog.”
“My dad loved this song.”
How long has it been since Dean mentioned their father? He and Sam don’t talk about it. Have fallen silent on the subject as much as possible since their last fight about it. How many topics are minefields for them now?
“Yeah? I don’t know if my father knows this song. Fuck him anyway.”
Dean laughs at the tone in her voice, surprisingly casual considering the topic, and then taps the dashboard.
“You ever hear the story of the groupie and the fish?”
“Yeah Andrew told me that one. But it was pretty exaggerated right?”
Dean nods, watches her light up again, and then settles back in the seat.
“I’ve tried a thousand times to teach Sam all of this stuff. I told him a million stories and I don’t think he kept a single one. Not his bag. He’s got a big old brain all filled with lore and law, but none of the good stuff.”
She flicks her high beams on.
“Everybody has something they want to know. Something they’re really good at remembering. With Andrew it was history and music. With me it’s plots. With you it’s pop culture it seems.”
Dean turns his head.
“All of pop culture?”
“You have affected a large number of mannerisms from movie and tv characters. So yeah. I’d say all of it.”
Dean shifts.
“I didn’t think you were paying attention.”
“I’m distracted, but not enough to not pay attention to the strange man I let in my car in the middle of the night.”
“Fair enough.”
“Your brother still hasn’t responded?”
Dean’s hand strays to his pocket. Rubs the outline of the phone through the denim before he finds the right response.
“No but I kind of expected that. He’s pretty pissed.”
“You should always avoid going to bed angry or fighting before a trip.”
Her voice is heavy, thick, and she taps her cigarette and then takes a very long pull.
He knows that he shouldn’t ask. That’s a line that offers no questioning.
Dean’s never been good at not doing that either.
“You speaking from experience?”
There’s a noise, something in her throat like a click, and then she coughs until she must be teary eyed. The cigarette gets more attention though.
“No. No I’m not.”
“Ok.”
But it’s starting to come together. Dean did poorly in literature classes. Never saw the point in looking at symbols in fiction when he had to study them so often in real life.
On the other hand, he was just fine at verb tenses.
He looks over his shoulder at the gray dress hanging so neatly from the hook above the door. At the backpack carelessly dropped on the seat and no doubt full of clothes wadded into tiny balls.
She doesn’t talk, and Dean holds on to the train of thought as they barrel up a mountain and towards Charleston.
They stop at the border, right after crossing into Virginia, and she hands him her phone with a Youtube video loaded up before disappearing into the gas station. Dean hits play. There’s only a static image, the young man from the earlier photo, but the music is good. Voice a little off but guitar strong and sweet.
“See That My Grave Is Kept Clean”. Blind Lemon Johnson.
Dean puts the phone carefully down on the seat before looking back at his own. Still no Sam. Anger is starting to turn into anxiety.
When she comes back out and slips into the driver’s seat Dean throws caution to the wind and calls Sam. Let her hear what she hears.
“Sammy. You fucking text me. I know you’re angry but just send a message man. Just let me know what the hell is happening with you.”
Kristin doesn’t talk about the call. They continue on, her eyes focused on something off in the distance, something beyond the road, and Dean is content to tap his feet and slap his thighs to the music and the growing dread.
And then, out of nowhere, she blindsides him again.
“You should leave him a nicer message.”
“Sweetheart, that is nice for us.”
She laughs at that too. Sad. So sad. And Dean can’t help himself anymore.
“It happen a while ago or just now?”
Her face crumples, briefly, illuminated by lights over the road in intermittent spurts. It smooths out and then crumples again as her voice breaks and then clears.
“Two days ago.”
“Mind if I ask how?”
Who knows. Maybe Dean has stumbled on another part of the case. She lived near McBee. It could happen.
“GVHD.”
Dean casts a net through his memory, tries to come up with something, and ends up simply staring at her. After an uncomfortably long silence she seems to realize he isn’t aware of what that is. She lights another cigarette, and Dean thinks he’ll be coughing before the trip is over.
“He had cancer. Acute myeloid leukemia. Went into remission and out of remission and then they said ‘get a bone marrow transplant’ and he did. And then he.”
She stops. Her hand rubs her face, eyes first and then mouth in a motion that is fully recovering alcoholic despite the fact she has no indicators. Probably a gesture she picked up from someone else.
“He started suffering from graft versus host disease. GVHD. It rotted out both of his hips. His teeth. Shut his esophagus down and then they had to shorten it. His stomach was up in his chest when he died. And then. And then he started having trouble breathing and he was gonna see a pulmonologist on Monday. His dad, my better adopted dad, said goodbye in the morning and then called to check on him an hour and a half later. He didn’t answer so Be-he died. Pulmonary embolism.”
“Jesus Christ. How old was he?”
“Thirty. He was thirty.”
Dean falls silent. His thumb is rubbing reflexively on his phone. He’s thinking of yelling at Sam. Of telling Sam that he’s useless in high stress situations because he just runs.
“Did you guys fight before that?”
She shakes her head, her mouth pulled into a line so tight her lips have disappeared. She’s about as pretty of a crier as Sammy.
It’s not a generous thought, but Dean feels anxiety building inside of him and he can’t help it.
“No. Sunday he was. I was gonna see him in two weeks. But. But it didn’t happen. He was practicing my favorite Dylan song. He was really excited.”
Dean shakes his head. He’s seen a lot of tragedy over the years. Widows and widowers, family members mourning losses, partners staring at corpses. Every story is the same and slightly different. Each one is a sad little self-contained universe that always ends with the same question. Why?
“I’m so sorry.”
She nods. Shakes her head. Nods again.
“Me too.”
They ride through the rest of Virginia in silence. Dean starts texting Sam again when the sun comes up.
She stops in North Carolina in a town called Troutman. The driveway into the gas station is bumpy as hell, and Dean needs to piss really bad. He heads into the bathroom and is just starting when his phone rings. He fumbles, juggling his dick in one hand and his phone in the other. It’s Sam.
Dean misses it by one ring. He fights to stay calm as he calls back and goes straight to voicemail. He calls again and gets the same. After his third attempt the phone dings and Dean has a voicemail.
“I’m fine. I’m there. Where are you?”
Dean texts Sam back, sick of listening to the voicemail message and sick of not knowing what’s happening with his brother.
North Carolina. Hitched a ride. Stay there.
Sam doesn’t bother to respond and Dean rushes back out to see Kristin standing next to the car staring at the sun. She’s put on sunglasses that point out how pale and tired she looks.
“He’s ok.”
It’s preempted by nothing but she seems to understand.
“Well let’s get moving. I’ll drive fast. I hate this state.”
The car starts up easily and they’re back on 77 south. It feels like they’ve been on it for an eternity. Dean’s mouth starts moving, separate and living without him.
“He walks. Every time we fight he walks. And you know, at some point, he shouldn’t be let off the hook for that. At some point he should be forced to fucking stay. Because that’s all I’ve ever been able to do you know? Stay. Stay waiting for Sammy. Stay hoping for Sammy. And I’m fucking sick of it.”
Kristin nods thoughtfully. He can see her expressions clearly now. They’re a little distant. A little blanked out. He figures she’s hitting the shock portion of the process.
“I’ll tell you a story. It’s not a good story. I was an English major. I really like stories.”
Dean fingers the outline of the phone in his pocket again and nods.
“When Andrew went into remission the first time it was like a miracle. We all relaxed. We just did. Because he was Andrew and he’d never been knocked down before in a way he couldn’t get up from. But this one night he gets drunk. Not a little drunk but utterly fucking plastered. And I love him, but even he admits he has a drinking problem. So this night he goes home from my house, we lived about three minutes apart, and he throws his keys. I get a call from another friend of ours to come get them both inside. It’s like, four or five in the morning I think, and there he is on the chair outside his garage covered in his own vomit and raging. I had work in a couple hours and I was furious. I got them both inside, couldn’t find the keys, had to wake his parents, and got him upstairs. Cleaned him off, tucked him into bed, and got my shit to go home again. And then Andrew reached out and grabbed my arm. And you know, I can’t stop thinking of this. Since I moved away Andrew has called me a lot to tell me how bad he needs me or how bad he misses me. To tell me I was an asshole for leaving but he understood or to tell me he was never gonna make it out of our hometown. But in this moment, for the first time since I’d met him, I think. You know they say everybody has a moment or two of something unnatural. Psychic or whatever. And Andrew grabbed my arm and he said, ‘Don’t leave me Krissy. I’m dying.’”
She stops. Well. Her voice stops but her mouth keeps going for a moment on soundless air. Dean’s clutching his cell phone at this point.
“And I thought that was so stupid. I told him too. I told him to shut up and go to sleep I’d see him at work. And two weeks later they said the cancer was back. And then they scheduled the bone marrow transplant during his second chemo round.”
“You shouldn’t feel guilty about that.”
Dean can’t see her eyes, but he can feel her gaze cut over to him.
“He was so grateful that I was coming. He was so excited. And I was excited too. You give yourself to someone you love. You give until you can’t anymore, or until they can’t anymore. Andrew had a lot of problems. He wasn’t happy with his life, he suffered through more than I can ever imagine. He had an alcohol problem before he got sick and it got worse after he got treated. He was a little spoiled, very abrasive. These are all honest truths. And I watched people blow him off and refuse to talk to him. But for some of us he was utterly priceless, because in all that ridiculous shit there were these moments where the most generous and kind person you could ever ask for would shine through. Because he had a capacity for forgiving greater than his temper. For the rest of my life I have to live with the guilt of leaving him. Even if that’s not what he wanted. For the rest of my life I have to live with the fact that he needed me and I wasn’t there. That a phone call or a text message was what I could give him. The logic of the matter, that you give what you can, that I visited him a ton of times and he never came to see me, the logic doesn’t count anymore because all that’s left is the ghost of the loss. A distorted and strange version of the bond we once had. Echoing forever into a void where I can talk but he can’t listen or respond.”
Dean watches her hand, shaking, pull out a cigarette and put it in her mouth. She swallows hard before she lights it.
“Never stop forgiving your brother for walking away. And never stop staying. Because eventually he’s gonna stop going and you’re going to find that staying is just fine. Enjoy it while you have it Dean. Once it’s gone it can’t be brought back.”
There’s a few ways Dean knows that would prove her wrong. He suggests none of them.
By the time they cross the North Carolina, South Carolina border the silence has gone on a really long time. Dean has had a lot to think about.
While she’s not exactly right, that you can’t get it back, Dean can see the truth in the statement. With every return from death they seem to have grown further apart. Lies and tensions building between the two of them. And whenever it seems like Sam is reaching out to close that gap Dean is always too angry to reach back.
He starts to wonder who’s really been leaving who.
The signs tell him McBee is coming up. Dean has one last question for her.
“What was it?”
“What was what?”
“The Dylan song he was practicing?”
Her face stops for a moment. Thoughtful. And then she smiles big and bright.
“’One More Cup of Coffee’. It was one of the only ones I liked actually. Andrew never won me over with Dylan.”
She stops outside of a gas station and Dean gathers his bag.
On a whim, sudden and overwhelming, Dean leans over and kisses her forehead. She looks utterly shocked.
“Your brother was loved. I can tell that. I bet he was aware of it too. I’m going to fix things with Sammy.”
Kristin nods, swallows, and then shoos him with her hands. He closes the door behind him and watches the car pause for a moment before it pulls back onto the main road and glides out of sight.
There’s a scary looking little motel on the edge of the tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Dean finds his Baby sitting outside it and picks the room two doors down. Knocks once and waits.
When Sam answers the door Dean steps in and wraps both arms around his little brother before he can react to Dean’s presence. Before he can say something that will break Dean’s resolve.
Sam is whipcord tight for the first few minutes. Then he melts in Dean’s arms, wrapping his own around and clapping Dean’s back hard with one giant hand. They stand there, breeze pressing against them and chests pressed close enough that Dean can feel the beat of Sam’s heart against his own.
“I’m sorry.”
His little brother make a surprised noise.
“I didn’t know you knew that word.”
“Shut up.”
They finally pull into the room. Sam has the TV running, a news report about the highways shutting down and a hurricane blowing in playing as they both take the bed away from the door and settle in. Dean figures the case can either be wrapped up before or wait until the storm blows out.
Dean figures they’ll both be staying either way.
I am not the only traveler
Who has not repaid his debt
I've been searching for a trail to follow again
Take me back to the night we met
And then I can tell myself
What the hell I'm supposed to do
And then I can tell myself
Not to ride along with you
I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met
I don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you
Oh, take me back to the night we met
When the night was full of terrors
And your eyes were filled with tears
When you had not touched me yet
Oh, take me back to the night we met
I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met
I don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you
Take me back to the night we met
Who has not repaid his debt
I've been searching for a trail to follow again
Take me back to the night we met
And then I can tell myself
What the hell I'm supposed to do
And then I can tell myself
Not to ride along with you
I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met
I don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you
Oh, take me back to the night we met
When the night was full of terrors
And your eyes were filled with tears
When you had not touched me yet
Oh, take me back to the night we met
I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met
I don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you
Take me back to the night we met
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