Date: Wed, 19 Jun 2013 04:59:40 +0200
- See the stars they're shining bright.
Fic: I'd Burn This City Down (To Show You the Light), Pt. 2
There’s an empty side of the bed when Dean awakes and maybe it was wishful thinking to assume Sam would bunk with him like a lovelorn teenager, but the last time he pulled one of his vanishing acts, he came home with a chunk missing. One that had only begun to heal.
Cursing him, Dean rolls out of bed to check the clock. After seven. It hadn’t been dark for long, which meant Sam must’ve been waiting to slip out under the cover of darkness. Once Dean had passed out, spent, lying in the wet spots on the bed, and unlikely to be conscious enough to stop him from going.
No conceivable way of knowing where Sam is or how to find him. Just the yawning knowledge that this time he might come back with more than a patchable tear on his side, if he made it back at all. “God damn it, Sam,” he voices again, limited options running double-time through his mind. The woes of one invisible man hunting another.
But wait—there was someone in the area that knew Sam.
He’s scrambling for his clothes before he can consider the myriad of ways this is a monumentally stupid idea, made even more impressive by the fact that he’s going it alone. Tracking down Sam, not knowing what the hell he’s involved in, is one thing, but going around and requesting favors from unbalanced waitresses that have tried to kill you—well, nothing about he and Sam is smart, is it? And he’s not losing him now.
Pulling his boots on, he lets his gut lead the way and asks whomever out there that pays attention to the lost, wretched things like them that he makes it back with Sam in one piece.
Ten minutes and a jog bring him to the door of the bar. He doesn’t stop, barrels his way through the door, wild-eyed and perspiring. A female bartender notes his approach with raised eyebrows and Dean presses on.
“There’s a waitress. Long, blonde hair, pale. I need to talk to her,” he resists adding a now and alienating the girl, casually swiping a rag over a mug as she nosily eyes him up and down. The unhurried pace of her movements only ratchets up his urgency.
“Rebecca? She’s not scheduled tonight, sorry.”
Dean exhales loudly. “Do you know of any way I can reach her? Please, it’s an emergency.”
She chews on it for another excruciating moment. “Oh yeah, there’s a party at Kappa Beta Phi tonight. Supposed to be a pretty big rager for those of us not stuck schlepping for peanuts instead.” Dean practically begs her with his eyes. “It’s the four-hundred block on Clayton about four or five miles from here,” she relinquishes. “You won’t miss it.”
Finally obtaining a straight answer, he turns to go, but she halts him one last time. “I wouldn’t get on her bad side if I were you.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Dean blows off. Too late anyway, and if she’s between him and Sam, then there is no issue. She’ll give him what he wants or he’ll get it one way or another. The things he’s willing to do—
Clearing his head and catching his breath in the corner, he pulls out Sam’s laptop, utilizing the bar’s wi-fi to pull up the directions. Hoofing it here was less than half a mile. By the time he got to the frat house on foot, toting a laptop, he’ll have lost too much time. He pulls up a search engine to get the details of the local bus system when something sparks his attention through the nearby window.
A young couple exits a pricey, black sedan, heading for the entrance and fondling each other so clumsily that this can’t be the first place they’ve hit up for booze tonight. He shakes his head and looks back down to the bus information before it registers.
They didn’t lock their car.
Easing the laptop shut, he tucks it under his arm, inconspicuously passing the couple in question as he heads to the parking lot. It’s a nagging at the back of his head. Has him scan the area and quietly open the driver door, sliding in and slouching down in the seat. A nail file in the middle console serves him well as he pulls out the ignition, hacking at the wires with the dull edge until the two he needs are free.
The sparks burn as he touches the ends together, succeeding in starting the car on the second try. The engine is a total contrast to the recognizable rumble of the Impala, running smooth and nearly inaudible. Mass produced junk for the rich—no personality, he thinks.
He takes her to the exit, joining the light traffic without a hitch, and he’s on his way.
At the first stoplight, he grips the wheel, tense. More than Sam’s whereabouts battling for dominance in his mind. The familiarity with the gun, the emergency first aid competency, and now the hotwiring. Doesn’t take a memory to connect the dots now. It’s a criminal’s skill set he’s been drawing on. One that matches Sam’s. Sam, who just so happened to pick him up off the road and take an interest in him, who packs a weapon, and disappears at night.
They knew each other. Whatever Sam is deep in, Dean had to have been too.
The whole time, Sam has kept it from him. For his own good. It touches off something buried, something raw. Dean hates that fucking phrase. He doesn’t know exactly what they are or what they were, but after he finds Sam, once he’s safe, one thing’s for sure—Dean’s kicking the ever-living shit out of him.
It’s early, which means the party still has some semblance of order and pretense of class, first guests being sized up at the door before they’re granted entrance. In a few hours, the members of the house will be too loaded or too far into the night’s conquests to notice one side of the building spontaneously falling down.
Lying his ass off about being a brother from the class of 2000 gets Dean in the door without much hassle. Some moronic, hastily fabricated chatter about the way they did it in “his” day, the over-regulated, over-PC state of the governing board. He’s fairly certain he’s not the college type, but if by some chance he is, he hopes to god it didn’t include this.
The doorman, a pledge, doesn’t recall laying eyes on the waitress when questioned and then bribed, so Dean makes his way further inside. Weaving through the crowd, luckily not too dense yet, he surveys the room. With the distinctive color of her hair, there’s no way he’s missing her if she’s here.
Checking the clock on his way out of and back into the main hall, he wastes ten fruitless minutes searching the ground floor, scouring the kitchen and the library. Half the damn board of a game of Clue. The upstairs is roped off, mostly reserved for hook-ups that’ll pick up in frequency as the night wears on. Little reason for the early comers to have migrated there yet.
Frustrated by his lack of progress, he heads to the balcony, where a few more people have congregated. Silver-haired psychotics unfortunately not among them.
The view the balcony provides is of a wooded area, darkened path leading into the trees. Perfect way for drunken idiots to end up mauled by wild animals, he lapses into Sam’s line of thinking, rubbing his forehead in consternation. The wind whips through the trees as he stares, producing something akin to the mournful wail of a woman.
But that doesn’t account for the ivory light that momentarily illuminates their tall shapes against the inky sky. He moves closer to the edge, not discounting a trick of the light, some aspect of the party being set up away from the house. It shines once more, brilliant and dazzling, this time revealing a figure in its midst, moving deeper into the woods. Wailing.
Dean takes the stairs down two at a time, until he’s standing at the foot of the path. The light is receding fast as he chases after, nearing the entrance to the woods. He gives one last, indecisive glance to the frat house, but this, it’s calling to him. Course decided, he dives in, pushing branches and bramble out of his way in search of the fleeting figure in white.
A root causes him to stumble, but he dusts himself off and doggedly continues the pursuit to where it gets brighter up ahead. There’s a clearing, and as he approaches he slows his gait, not wanting to frighten the figure from where it stands. Near the trees, gazing at the stars. Lighting the ring of the clearing into a gleaming jewel from afar.
Cautiously, he moves aside a branch, coming closer. It’s almost blinding at this proximity, emanating a warmth now that Dean is near enough to let it coast over his skin. He blinks as the figure turns to him, shielding his eyes as the shape is lost amongst the light.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the creature that promised you an end to what I started, Dean Winchester.” That voice—the light dims until Dean can see. The warmth disappears. The waitress.
There’s no chance to process what’s unfolding before his eyes when even that form, the beautiful, but deadly young girl, begins to shift and rearrange itself, bones protruding, skin bulging in patches to create yet another visage. It’s a twisted reversal of the glory that drew him here, trap too enticing and alluring to pass by. Now devolving before his eyes into something sinister that knows more of him than he knows of himself.
With a sickening squelch, the waitress’ body breaks and cracks until only the withered, skeletal body of an old woman remains in its place.
Dean backs away as she steps purposefully toward him. “What the hell are you?”
“What’s the matter, Dean? Don’t recognize me?”
“Can you blame me,” he bluffs, eyes searching the ground for something, anything to defend himself. “Single, white female one minute, stock hag the next.”
“You kept your sense of humor,” she rasps, edging him against a tree, nowhere to run, putrid breath filling his nostrils. “I’ll enjoy the chance to savor it this time.” Touching a finger to Dean’s stomach, she indifferently drags a razor-sharp nail across it, blood welling to the surface in her wake. He inhales sharply, swallows down a yell of pain. Won’t give her the satisfaction.
“The thing about life force—what’s good for it is terrible for souls. And a soul in as pitiable shape as yours,” she tsks. “But all the things you’ve done and seen will sustain me for decades. When I got a taste of you before, I knew. I had to have you.”
Her gnarled hand rests against his cheek and Dean is jerked forward by an invisible force, limbs outstretched, but his back fixed against the tree. The air itself isn’t enough, going thin and useless. He’s fading, drain on his being far more powerful than what she did to him as the waitress at the bar. Gasping, his lips part on reflex, as if he were about to be sick. A whispy tendril emerges from his throat, pulled taut, and as she maintains her hold, it thickens into a mist, flows forth smoother and more rapid.
“My sister, on the other hand, will have to be satisfied with just killing Sam.” Dean attempts to lash out at her for letting his name roll of her rotted tongue so flippant, but she plants her hand on his stomach, rendering him limp and doubling the rate of extraction. “Life force without a soul, well, it doesn’t taste right, Dean. Oh, how she’ll pout tonight. You know how it is with younger siblings. Or, you did.”
His eyes roll upward in vain, only part of him unrestrained as the rest is taken.
Eyes glinting with mirth, she cocks her head toward him, the ant under a magnifying glass. “Goodbye.”
That deceptively frail form seizes suddenly, look of shock frozen on the hag’s face. The link holding him shatters and Dean clambers out of the line of fire as fast as his punished body will carry him. A dagger penetrates her heart, virtually holding her aloft, tattered shoes hovering above the ground. Sam stands over from behind, twisting the blade with a slow, deliberate rotation of his wrist.
“Told you I’d make you pay for laying your hands on him.” Sam whispers into her waxen ear before letting her crumple inelegantly to the forest floor. The light flashes in one intense, parting burst and then dies as Sam steps around her, already forgotten. He goes to Dean, crouching in front of him and turning Dean’s face side to side by the chin, inspecting. Expression easing when Dean glares up at him. “You couldn’t sleep for a few more hours?”
An insult followed by a round of I want some god damn answers dies on Dean’s lips. Coming up fast, gliding above the ground, Dean spies the banshee’s sister, grotesque face distorted in rage. “Sam!”
A piercing shriek forces Dean to clamp the heels of his hands against his ears in preservation, but she has Sam pinned to the ground, getting the full blast as he tries to fend off her shredding claws, swiping in rage inches above his vulnerable throat. A bloody, painful death on either front and Dean with a first-hand view unless he does something.
The bone-deep urge to rip her apart for touching what’s his spurs him on toward the dagger, knocked from Sam’s hand. Though it’s like fighting through molasses, compelling his muscles to move, to keep going when every, last one wants to give out, overloaded and shot—he pushes off the nearest tree and uses the momentum to rise.
Barely audible above the screeching, Sam is bellowing his name, eyes instinctively wrenched shut from the assault on his hearing, like it’ll lesson the agony. A trickle of blood runs from one of his ears in warning.
Dean is mere feet from the blade. She sees this as he does. He breaks into a mad dash, letting his hands fall free from his ears. Keeping Sam in place with her voice, she whirls around, stopping Dean in his tracks with a wave of her hand that has the tattoo on his chest searing bright and fresh, like it’s being burned into his flesh anew. He clutches at it, kneeling in the dirt, still attempting with everything he has to inch himself to the knife, under dual assault.
The distraction proves ample enough opportunity for Sam to kick her legs out from under her, briefly silencing her deafening shriek. “Dean, the heart!” he yells, and Dean is on his feet, gritting his teeth against the fire still burning in his chest. The dagger is heavy in his grip, immaculate design carved into the handle.
She bucks like a wounded animal, trying to dislodge Sam as Dean approaches. Raising the knife above his head, he brings it down as Sam rolls out of the way, puncturing her heart on the first thrust. Both back away, ready to move in again, together, but the tell-tale light show begins, shrunken eyes illuminating and flickering out.
The hateful satisfaction on Sam’s face fades when he glimpses Dean, stock still and blank. “What’s wrong?”
The knife slips from Dean’s hand and into the dirt, trailing back to the tattoo, hot to the touch even through his clothes. There’s an oncoming wall of sound, reverberating inside his head. Not the banshee, no, it’s—someone speaking. Overlapping, clashing voices turning to bedlam. He peers at Sam, his image wavering and receding as Dean’s vision swims and his head is suddenly nigh to bursting.
“I’m a collector. I work with my brother off and on.”
“—Not the guy he’s looking for now—“
“It’s a criminal’s skill set he’s been drawing on. One that matches Sam’s.”
“And the rest—I know what he would say.”
“You know how it is with younger siblings. Or, you did.”
“—Some part you wish you could kill, beat outta you—it gives a damn about someone.”
Dean opens his eyes.
There’s weight on him, Sam’s hands soothing at his sides. He shakes them off violently, skin crawling as he retreats into the nearest surface he can keep his back to. With a small shake of his head, Sam gazes at him in confusion, waiting for an answer to a question he asked someone else.
If he were Sam, the real thing, he would’ve known by now. Just by looking into Dean’s eyes and reading the virulent revulsion and disgust splashed across the front pages.
His eyes narrow when it clicks. “Dean.”
Hearing his name out of that thing’s mouth is the last fracture in the dam. Rearing back and clocking the hell out of its jaw, he tackles him to the ground, bodies of the banshees surrounding them. Dean drives his fist at Sam’s face again and again, wanting it to fight back so Dean can hurt it more, the only way it’s capable of being broken. “What are you?!” he keeps screaming as it shields itself from the worst of the assault, but doesn’t throw a punch, not a fucking one. The same way it laid there after Veritas. Insidious thing getting under Dean’s skin and making him think—
Cracking his sore knuckles, he gets up, putting the span of the clearing between them. Clenching and unclenching his fist rhythmically as he paces, anything to dispel this endless wellspring of rage that only has the one other place to go.
Sam—it, rests on one knee, spits a mouthful of blood onto the dirt before it rises, wiping its stained lips. “For what it’s worth,” Dean closes his eyes as it speaks, exhaling loudly. “I was going to go to Bobby’s to get your memories back after I took care of the banshees.”
It throws its hands up, gazing at Dean though he pointedly refuses to engage it right now. “I thought—I thought I was doing you a favor.”
Dean’s head snaps up, unbidden. “A favor?” Running a hand over his mouth, he stares, incredulous. “What, you thought if you made me into some pod person, we’d go skipping through the fields, slaughtering puppies and fucking without the whole brothers thing in the way— “ he stops, dawning horror entering his mind. “Did you plan this?”
“Of course not.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you.”
“Believe what you want. I didn’t let the banshee do anything to you and I didn’t even know until the next day, what surviving one would do to you. The books all said it would wear off quick and Bobby confirmed it. When I saw you coming around, I decided to drop you off and circle back to pick you up like I found you there. Thought it was the more humane option than trying to cram thirty plus years of unbelievable events back into your head myself. I thought it was what you would’ve done,” he finishes.
Dean casts his gaze skyward, shoulders shaking with barely contained fury in the thin guise of laughter. “What I would’ve done?”
“All that stuff you were talking about? About a soul being misery. I listened and I realized, you were right. That’s how it was for me and this was the closest thing for you. That’d it would be easier for a while. That you deserved a break. Wasn’t it?”
“Don’t pretend that you give a damn about me, don’t you dare. You’re hardwired to care about what happens to one person and one person alone. See, I told you that it made you the last person that needed to be calling any shots but then you take it upon yourself to do this?” he spreads his arms wide and it’s just the two of them but the mountain of fucked up just keeps growing taller. “You think you’re happy like this? All this makes sense to you. What the fuck are you going to think about all of it when you get your soul back, huh? About what a great idea crossing so many fucking lines with me was.”
Sam blinks in thought, as infuriatingly unaffected as he always was when Dean wasn’t himself. “Probably the same thing I’ve always thought about it. That I know it’s wrong but I want it anyway.”
He levels Dean with wide, apologetic, lying eyes and Dean can’t stay and look at its face anymore. What it does with Sam’s face. It can’t know what Sam thinks about him, the two of them, it doesn’t know how. It lies as easy as breathing.
“It wasn’t real,” Dean declares, voice low. “None of it. Not you—“ he purses his lips into a drawn line. “This is how you want to be for the rest of your life, have fun.”
Setting off in the direction he senses the road and thus the Impala, he’s gone.
“Bobby, stay out of it,” he slams the trunk lid down in the parking lot of a Shell station outside Lincoln. “You got no idea what he did this time. None.”
“Well, seeing as the two of you unofficially deemed me your couples’ counselor,” Dean blanches at the implication, despite Bobby having no way of knowing. “I figure you got to hear some things you don’t want to when you call. He ain’t exactly in his right mind, you of all people have to recognize that.”
“He’s not Sam. Period.”
“It’s that simple, is it?”
Dean adjusts the phone in his grip, watching the crawl of I-80 East in the distance. Long way to go to Omaha and beyond on that road. Road that’ll take him to closer to Battle Creek. Home. “It is from where I’m standing.”
Bobby sighs. “Where is he?”
“Don’t know, but he can take care of himself. Not my problem anymore.”
“Son, call me when you get your head screwed on straight. I got better things to do than listen to this.” Dean scoffs lightly as the call abruptly disconnects. Screwed is what his head’s been for the past week and a half. Doesn’t matter. Bobby’s not his keeper and Dean isn’t Sam’s.
Sam is gone.
Scrolling through his phone, he stops at Lisa’s number. Hasn’t told her yet that he’s coming, hasn’t quite gotten to the point where he’d know what to say. He’ll call. Lot of road left in between to call.
During the years Sam was content in his deceptively secure haven at Stanford and Dad increasingly took solo jobs, making progress in finding the thing that killed Mom but keeping Dean in the dark—he ate a lot of meals alone. This deafening silence in the corner booth of the diner or parked under the shade of the nearest courtesy tree. No arguing to be had with Sam, no common strategy to be reviewed with Dad, almost nothing of the things that kept him tethered to the world when his white-knuckled grip was perilously close to slipping. Six years on, and one thing is abundantly clear—he hates it now as much as he did then.
He balls up half of his second burger and chucks it out the window, appetite dwindling.
His stomach won’t settle as he approaches the Michigan state line. Mind and body firing off-kilter the whole trip because Dean made the stupid mistake of allowing himself to get used to having Sam. Because the last two weeks, despite the violation and the overwhelming risk of it all, was the closest thing he’s had to his brother in over a year and deep down, he knows it’s why he didn’t fight it—everything that didn’t add up.
In his gut, he can’t ever look and not see part of Sam.
Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he pulls back onto the loop that’ll take him to the highway. Less than three hours to Lisa’s if he shoots straight through. He doesn’t plan on stopping again.
Dean idles in the driveway for a few minutes before killing the engine.
They’re not home and he’s thankful for the opportunity to collect himself. Doesn’t want to leave any more excess baggage on their doorstep. Running out of room at this point.
The neighborhood isn’t that different from the old one in Cicero. Manicured lawns and mini-vans, the Impala still sticking out like a sore thumb. No personality, he recalls, letting out a small chuckle despite himself. Not built for civilian life, his baby.
Taking a breath to steel himself, he gets out of the car, feeling exposed where others find security. He lived the life, worked the job, ran the errands, but it was for the family. Because his is gone.
Letting his hand trail along the Impala’s side, he goes to the trunk to unload the couple of emergency bags they always kept stashed there. Some clothes and blankets to keep from freezing if they had to sleep in the car, basic protection like pistols, salt, and iron, along with miscellaneous items like first aid and back-up cell phones. Sam used to be the one to keep it organized.
Hefting the ones he thinks he’ll need quick access to until he can stock the house to the side, he counts an odd number. An extra bag. Unzipping the main portion, he inspects the contents. Sam’s clothes, wrinkled like they’d been recently used. It’s one of his day-to-day bags, must’ve brought it with him when he went after the banshees.
Biting down on the initial urge to toss it, he realizes there’s no point in not salvaging what he can. He touches the clothing as minimally as possible, ignoring thoughts of how Sam felt on him, swirling around his head and not making him as sick as they should be by all rights.
His hand brushes a hard item near the bottom. Almost thought he imagined it, the cushioning of the t-shirt deliberately wrapped around it belying its presence there. Unraveling the fabric, he nearly drops it when it falls into his hand.
No worse for wear than the dark times he dropped it in the trash, unable to see beyond the end of the day and figuring it didn’t matter anyway. Nothing did, because he was alone.
But he wasn’t. Sam showed him that.
His Sam took it out of the trash because he already knew, just had to knock the sense back into Dean’s head. Carried it with him until the day he gave up everything for them all. And the thing Dean had been calling a shell with his face, kept it close ever since. With no reason to whatsoever. Instinct.
Dean closes it in a fist he pounds against the roof of the car.
He spreads his throbbing fingers against the warm metal. How is he supposed to deal with this? What the hell is he supposed to do? Whatever he may feel for Dean, this part of Sam isn’t his brother, but he can’t bury his head on this one, can’t deny that there’s something of his brother left. Cracks like this in the soulless façade when something unexplainable but for burgeoning sincerity boils to the surface.
Without a soul, without memories—somehow it always comes down to each other.
Another thing about his gut. It knew he never should’ve come here. Nagged at him from the moment he left Sam stranded in Boulder.
He’s glad Lisa and Ben didn’t see him, glad this one time he doesn’t have to darken their doorstep. They’re a family and they have each other to turn to, but Dean, he has to take care of his own.
It’s a local diner they’ve blown through before, fresh pies and ultra-thick, “millionaire” milkshake specialties advertised on the glass. Sam is there, as promised. Attention fixed out the window as he sips coffee, portions of food left neglected on the table. It occurs to Dean that little about Sam may be functioning normally on a physical level. Not just the sleep but his appetite, his tolerance for alcohol, and Dean would say his libido, but—it took two to make that bed and lie in it.
Truth be told, he didn’t want to know. Too busy taking it out on Sam for wearing that face, focusing on what was lost instead of what was left and going all in to get back the rest. Sam burning the way Dean burned. All of it’s going to change.
Sam has to have seen him but allows Dean to approach on his own terms. When he finally sits down, Sam doesn’t react, doesn’t engage him at all and whether it’s an attempt at consideration or not, Dean’s back to not knowing.
In the meantime, he pulls Sam’s plate over and takes a bite out of a piece of bacon. He has his appetite back at least. Figures for him, for them, it’s a step in the right direction.
“How’d you find me?” Placing his now empty cup on the table, he pushes over the rest of his uneaten breakfast and signals the waitress for more coffee.
“Bobby,” Dean admits through the side of his mouth, chewing.
“I didn’t get laid,” that random admission stops Dean’s jaw from working for a minute. “After you took off. Feel the loss and all, right?” Sam looks to him for approval, and he’s trying, so Dean thinks the least he could do is the same.
“I wanted you anyway. It’s better with you,” he finishes, not nearly as unaware as he projects. Not with this, when he watches the heat creep up Dean’s neck, entirely too happy with himself. Dean wasn’t exactly planning on having this conversation over half of breakfast. While they’re on the subject, however, he asks, straightforward, “What you said about Sam. The other part of Sam and what he thought. That a lie?”
“What reason do I have to lie about it?” He does have a point, but—
“I can’t,” Dean clears this throat awkwardly. “Not until you’re—all of you, again.”
Weighing it, Sam’s brow furrows. “So, should I—wait for you? Is that how it works?”
“I don’t know. Could you?”
“Can I jerk off with you in the room?”
“You probably will anyway, won’t you?”
“Probably,” Sam concedes, cheerfully getting his refill from a waitress who lingers around their table a little too long, eavesdropping. Or possibly another homicidal creature, guess they’ll have to wait and see come nightfall.
Dean shakes his head. “Not entirely shocking that even with very special episode amnesia, I still wanted to kill you half the time.”
“And the other half?”
“Drink your damn coffee,” he orders without bite. Sam smirks into his cup, going back to the window.
“You brought the car.”
“That’s good, cause I’m pretty sure there’s an APB out on the Volvo I stole.”
“Well, I knocked out a cop in Denver that was running the plates, so,” he shrugs.
Dean gapes at him, lowering his voice in case their company is still nearby. “Knocked out not meaning a euphemism for dead, right?”
“I dragged him to the toilet. He was still breathing.” These are the things that Dean will have to keep in check until they get his soul back. But, Sam, to his credit, does seem to be learning.
“I knew if you were there, you’d tell me not kill him. That’s how I made the decision,” he explains. It’s almost the demented equivalent of a kid showing off a drawing to be put on the fridge. Dean manages a weak smile, still a ways to go with this. He starts, “We’re going to get your soul back.”
“But, I think maybe there’s more of him to you than either of us bargained for.”
He picks up a menu and Sam peers at him owlishly, turning over the words in ways that Dean will probably never fully comprehend. But some things stay the same—Sam’s always looked to him and he’s not going to let him down. Any part of him. They all belong in the same place.
He’ll slip the amulet back in his bag tonight.
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