Archive of Our Own ^beta

A thousand miles to Blackwater, to Dad. 

As he'd informed Sam, it was going to be a thousand miles of Metallica, Zeppelin, and the gritty rumble of his Baby below him. Maybe even some pizza from the take-away shop at the border of the town. What could be better? He'd smirked then, and thrown a glance at Sam to gauge his reaction. Annoyingly, he was just staring at him, lips pursed, eyes drawn and almost sad. 

Dean grimaced, then patted his palm softly on the dash, silently apologizing for what wasn’t her fault. 

“It’s not you, Baby.”

Baby replied by jostling Dean in his seat as she slid over the speed trap at the edge of the lot. He was going far slower than he needed to be for a deserted parking lot, but couldn't bring himself to speed her up. 

“Yeah.” Dean dragged a hand across his face and glanced around. 

It was dark. Just one streetlight to the right, casting its glow mostly upwards where it dissolved into sky. All he could make out was a repainted stop sign sticking out at an angle and an official-looking sign with an arrow pointing to the left and words written in white. 

‘STANFORD UNIVERSITY MAIN’

Dean’s burger started turning over in his stomach again, rolling and clenching as the Impala continued to inch forward. He swallowed quickly and pressed a clammy fist into his chest to shove away the persistent sting there. 

Damnit, Sammy, I’m too young to have heartburn. 

He guessed Sam's response. 'Well, with the way you feed yourself...." 

I mean really, what was he supposed to do anyway? Knock on some poor sop's door and ask if he could borrow their kitchen? Yeah, that'd go over well. Sometimes, he got lucky, and when hunts went well, some grateful chick would make him food for the road. But, he usually opted for a different kind of 'thanks' anyway. 

Now this hunt, in Dean’s opinion, had gone down decently well. Probably better than average. Ganked the ghost lady, saved the day, made more friends than enemies.. Who cares that it was actually her kids that got her in the end, he and Sam brought her there, didn’t they? He'd also told Sam they made a hell of a team. He'd been on his best behavior too and had hardly made any mistakes. Not with Sam there to watch his every move. Dean's gut clenched again. No fatal mistakes at least. With that track record, he figured it only made sense that he made one now. 

Dean looked in the rear view mirror.

He could still make out a figure far behind him. Sitting on the yellow-illuminated steps leading up to that apartment (Dean refused to call it his home), hunched over his bag on his lap, but face turned upwards. Looking straight at Dean.  

Sammy. 

He hasn’t gone inside yet. 

Dean’s stomach lurched again. He desperately tried to swallow the heat and bile rising in his throat as he stared into his mirror. He couldn't blink. As he watched, Sam crossed his legs and settled his arms comfortably on his bag. Dean's heart was thundering in his ears.

What the fuck is wrong with me?!

Hands tightened around the wheel, slick with sweat, and Dean found himself slamming the gas, wrenching the wheel to the right, and speeding off as fast as he could. He needed to get out of there, fast. If he stayed… Well. Best not to find out. 

Shaking his head to clear the nausea, Dean focused his eyes on the town around him and tried to make his thoughts behave. Okay, okay, highway. Which way to the highway? Stupid town, stupid California. Weren’t college towns supposed to be awake all the time anyway? All he could see was gas stations and quiet duplexes. It wasn't that late, right? Where’s all the hot girls stumbling out of a party? Where's the beer? How many hours away from him can I get tonight?

Damn. Well, there he went again. That didn’t last long. 

He just needed a distraction. Then he could get the hell out. Dean's hand slipped on the wheel as he whipped by several bars that might have looked the type, but they all seemed closed. His eyes alighted on a small bar to his left, just past the light. A rundown joint in between a farmers market and a butcher shop, but it was open. There were only a few cars left in the lot and the neon sign flickered at Dean as he pulled in, but he didn't care to read it. 

He parked in the corner, facing the cracked street, and breathed in slowly. Okay. A pick me up, just enough to make him stop fucking thinking about hi- No. Dean tried to picture what she'd look like. A flirty brunette bartender, with curves in all the right places, waiting inside with an easy smile when he walked in... He closed his eyes.

Instead, it's those grey-yellow steps. A figure sitting hunched over…

“No!”

Dean's head thumped against the wheel as he forced the image out of his mind. Come on… maybe her name is Delilah.. or Amy.. he could imagine the smooth skin of her cheeks.. the way her curls bobbed as she walked.

He closed his eyes again. Sammy looked up at him from where he was settled in front of his apartment door and blinked, eyes reflecting the porch light. A few strands of hair blew across his face and Dean reached out to brush them aside. Were those tears shining in his eyes, or just a trick of the light?

Dean felt his jeans tighten and he wrenched his eyes open. 

“See, Sammy! Even my dick’s on board! Get your scrawny ass outta here.”

Dean flicked a glance over to the passenger seat almost instinctually, despite the lack of sense. Before this hunt, he hadn't even seen Sam in two years, its not like he was a permanent fixture in this car. It's not like he was always supposed to be here. Dean's eyes slide to the backseat instead. He used to stretch out back there, those long legs folded sideways in an attempt to get comfortable. But Sammy always looked just a bit too lanky for his own good, grumbling about some new case Dad was driving them to, head thrown back, neck on display as Dean twisted from the front to get a better look at him. 

For the third time in the past ten minutes, Dean's diner-deluxe burger tried its best to climb out of his throat. He raised his head up from where it was still pressed into the steering wheel. He found himself staring out into the night, the picture of teenage Sammy still behind his eyes. It was cloudy on the street, but if he looked carefully, he realized he could still see the top of Sam's apartment building peeking out above the shorter duplexes. 

Fuck me.

Alright, that's it. He swallowed thickly and started to open his door. He shivered as a gust of wind blew past. So cold. Dean checked his watch where his hand pressed against the door. Eleven twenty-two. Okay, maybe an hour, that was doable. Then he'd hit the road until sunrise. He nodded to himself and stepped out of the Impala, stumbling slightly in a crack in the gravel. 

Wait. Dean looked back at the black face of his watch. He waited for the quiet ticking to break the silence of the parking lot. Eleven twenty-two. Exactly. The second hand wasn't moving. He smacked the face with the heel of his other hand and again waited for the familiar ticking. Nothing. The neon sign still flickered happily, beckoning him to just forget it and walk inside. 

Icy air bit into his lungs and Dean felt a stone start sinking to the pit of his stomach. Sluggish with confusion, he turned in Sam's direction and fought through yet another wave of sickness, this time with dread mixed in. This isn't right. Something's wrong. 

The sting in his chest spurred Dean into action. It was stronger this time. He hadn't even closed the car door behind himself yet. Alarm bells rang in his ears, gaining volume as he turned on his heel. He slammed back into the car and was out of the lot before he could blink. 

Damn it. What is it now, Sammy? 

Crap. Crap.

Dean swerved around an open gate and sped up.

"Come on Baby, he needs us." 

They made it back to the student apartments in less than two minutes, making sure those traffic cams got a couple glamour shots of his Baby ignoring any sort of light. The whole car sprang forward this time as he also ignored the speed bump and screeched right up to the glowing steps. 

Sammy wasn't there. But as Dean flung himself out of his seat, boots thumping the gravel, the smell hit him. 

Dean was four years old, clutching a baby half his size.

Smoke. Burning.

Fire.

Dean's chest ached as he raced up the steps. He could see the smoke now, billowing out the window, thick and angry. 

"SAMMY!" 

Dean kicked the door in and immediately breathed in. He coughed, narrowing his eyes against the sting. 

"Sam!" 

His own voice was loud in the apartment as he crashed toward the heat. Heat that way. Fire. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy, that way. His heart roared louder than the flames, a litany of Sam's name drowning everything else out. The seconds were painful as he ran to the back of the room, arms stretched out like he could reach him sooner that way. 

Please, no. He has to be- He has to.

Finally, Dean reached the bedroom door. He had to close his eyes against the brightness of the flames inside. He heard himself calling out Sam's name again, and then there he was. Curled on the bed, arms raised as if to ward off the flames, yelling something Dean couldn't hear. The room was covered in flames, the heat incredible, smoke filling the room from the top down.

Dean shot a glance upwards where the fire was the strongest.

Mom?

Dean froze. 

“Take your brother outside.”

Dean's body moved before he told it to, panic rising, reaching for his brother. He grabbed Sam's arms and forced him up out of the bed. Fast. They needed to go faster. Get out. Get outside. He shoved against Sam's struggling and tried to breathe enough for the both of them. They made it all the way to the front door before Sam stopped punching his shoulder, but Dean could feel him flinch against his chest when the fire behind them blasted into the living room. Sam slumped to the floor.

"Sammy, move!"

His brother was practically dead weight as Dean hauled him up again and half carried, half dragged him down those stupid fucking yellowed steps. Dean hoped he never saw them again.

"Jess..."

He's.. heavier... this time. 

Dean panted as he came to a stop and propped Sam up against the Impala. He turned his back on the flames and breathed out as he tilted Sam's face up. His brother's jacket was still hot and Dean frantically patted his elbow where a few insistent flames continued to squirm, but Sam just stared up at him. 

Those were tears. And ash everywhere, on his face, his clothes. A few tracks on his cheeks where the tears had cut through the ash. 

"Dean, it was-"

"Shhh. I know."

Dean should feel horrible. Agony. This is when he should feel sick, repulsed by the violence and death. Angry and devastated for his brother. 

And he did feel his chest sting again as Sammy reached out to clutch at his leather jacket with both hands. He didn't deserve this. But as Sam pulled him in closer, and Dean threaded one hand through his ashy hair and the other around his waist, Dean's rebellious stomach settled into place. Shit. Later, Dean thought. Later. He closed his eyes, pressed his face into Sam's jacket, and breathed.

His brother was out. Safe. Sam was in Dean's arms again — where he'd keep him this time.