509Hey everyone-
This has been a long journey. Thanks for sticking around for the end =)
Here it is,
Exactly one year to the day of the first post, the final chapter...
Energies and Ice Cream
CH 16
"Yeah well," Ed cocked the handgun, and returned an audacious glare, "I'm real sorry to hear about your ass being bitched-up… but I've got a job to do!" And with that, he kicked the door open, and jumped out shooting.
Twenty-two truly agitating seconds later…
It had happened fast; commercials have lasted longer. The transition from the truck to the game room had been almost seamless.
Despite Ed's admitted lack of energy, the moment he exited the truck he was one hundred percent bullets and battle. As Ed kept everyone covered, Dean managed to get himself, Sam, and the kitten into the house. He dropped both brother and Batty onto the sofa then turned just in time to see Ed lunge through the open sliding door. Ed threw down his guns and slammed the sliding door shut. Or rather, he would have slammed it shut had there not been a cat in the way.
"Damn it to-" Ed kicked the cat while he continued to push on the door. As Dean watched it became quickly apparent that Ed was either generously offering his leg up as a scratching post, or the cat was winning.
"Hang on!" Dean ran to the door, brought his foot up, and stomped the cat in the head. As the living-dead animal collapsed into a daze, Dean redirected his foot and kicked. The fuzzy zombie flung out onto the deck and bounced like a fumbled football. Ed slammed the sliding door fully shut, clamped the lock down, and turned to brace his back against the glass. He looked at Dean.
"Do you think this'll-" !SMACK! "-hold?" Behind the glass, dozens of copper eyes glowed in the foreground of dark rolling mist. One by one, the cats threw themselves into the glass.
"Errr-" !SMACK! "-no," Dean concluded curtly.
"Um-" !SMACK! "-okay."
The demon pushed from the door and hurried to the pool table. "Grab the other end!" Agreeing with what Ed seemed to be going for, Dean grabbed the other end of not the table itself, but of the large wooden table top cover. They maneuvered the wall of wood over the glass doors and dropped it in place, then stepped back to assess: both men folded their arms across their chests and gave a stern nod of approval.
!SMACK!
Both men jumped and scurried without discussion back to the pool table. They grabbed and pushed the large, solid wood table flush against the covered doors. The table was heavy and once in place, left them with a strong confidence that anything wanting entrance into the room would have to find another way.
Realizing that…
"I'll check upstairs." Dean flew through the room and up the basement stairwell. He had it open for a total of half a second when he slammed it shut.
"Shit. They're in the house!" He informed Ed loudly. Ed, accompanied by Batty at his heels, rounded the corner from the lower room and walked casually up to meet him. Batty hopped onto the top landing, sniffed at the door, then laid down to take a nap. Ed noted her lack of enthusiasm.
"Comfortable?" He asked. She glanced up briefly then put her head back down and shut her eyes. "Well that answers that," Ed concluded offhand.
"Hello?! Can we get back to the barricading?" Dean questioned impatiently.
"Right." Ed sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm trying to figure out what to do here. Ya know… big picture."
"Big picture?" Dean projected. "Let me paint it. You. Me. Bending over- taking it up the ass by a bunch of living-dead cats."
"Remind me not to attend any art exhibits where you're the artist. Look. This can't last forever- it just… can't. We'll barricade ourselves in and then figure it out. Between the two of us we should have enough experience and smarts to come up with something."
"Okay," Dean agreed, "but when something goes terribly wrong and this game room begins to resemble a crypt, I get dibs on ALL the alcohol."
"Look just- I'll work on barricading the door," he placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, "you take care of your brother."
Sam, Dean thought. In all the commotion, he had almost forgotten where things had been left with Sam. A shiver dropped through his body like a tough shot of whisky downed after a hard life's work.
"Sure," he agreed in an almost reluctant tone, and walked down the steps to where he had dumped his kid brother off on the couch.
Dean stood silently at the end of the sofa looking down at where Sam lay, tossed onto its thick grey cushions. He moved to the coffee table, slid the remotes off onto the floor, and sat down. He stared at his brother for a moment, then shifted his gaze up toward the bar. The florescent light, affixed somewhere under the paneling, cast an eerie blue-green glow through the bottles and out into the room; it flickered briefly, then settled in at a slightly dimmer glow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and returned his gaze to Sam. The kid was pale, vulnerable looking, and still- too still- for Dean's liking. He wanted a timeframe, he wanted to know just how long his brother had been out for: ten minutes, fifteen, longer? He scrubbed his face uneasily and leaned toward the couch.
Reaching out, he pressed two fingers into the crook of Sam's neck, shifted them, pressed harder, and the slow, even thumping he was searching for pulsed against his fingers. He sighed sternly, hesitated, then glanced at the far end of the room; Ed was up on the stairs, well out of sight. Dean turned back to his brother. He slid his fingers down under the edge of Sam's shirt and into the crow's nest of his collar bone. It was warm, with a faint beat, but there was nothing new, nothing that added information which could console or enlighten him. Embarrassed and impatient, he withdrew his fingers.
Dean shook his head, disgusted with himself.
"Take care of him?" He berated. "Yeah right." His arms tightened across his chest. His jaw clenched in its sockets. His eyes narrowed, vision set: on Sam's wrists, on Sam's ankles, on Sam's chest. That tape- that fucking tape- wrapped around his kid brother like something out of a horror movie. He stared at it feverishly. Stared until his vision blurred. Stared until it took on a persona of its own. Until that tape was like the enemy itself.
Dean stood and stalked furiously toward the bar. He moved behind it and searched: searched the shelves, searched the drawers, searched the cabinets. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
"fuck. Fuck. FUCK! I've had it!" He grabbed a drawer from below the bottles, yanked it fully out, and dumped its contents across the top of the bar. Within three seconds of shoving through the mess he concluded the effort futile. "Damn it to hell! This is ridiculous!" He roared. And with that, swiped his arm across the bar and sent everything, including the drawer itself, spiraling out into the room.
"DEAN!" The harsh tone erupted out of nowhere. The hunter turned abruptly to find Ed standing by the edge of the couch, remnants of the drawer scattered at his feet. "What the hell are you doing?" He grilled crossly.
"What am I-?" Dean gawked at the demon as if it where him who'd lost control. He rounded the bar and menaced up in Ed's face continuing to shout. "I'm looking for a knife, or a pair of scissors, or anythingthat can cut this freakin' nut job tape you've got him wrapped in!" Ed sighed evenly.
"Dean, calm down."
"Calm down? You want me to fucking calm down?" Dean grabbed him by the shirt. "This is bullshit! Why'd you tape him up like this? Huh? Why? For your plan? So that he'd talk? Well he's not talking, he's not even waking up! So find me a god damn knife, 'cause I want it OFF him!"
Ed looked down and calmly stared at the way Dean's hands were clinched into the fabric of his shirt; he looked back up.
"I don't have a knife, or scissors, or anything that can cut that." Ed pressed with finality. "So I'm sorry Dean, but you're going to have to calm down… and deal."
"No-" Dean shook his head. "No, that's crap." He shoved off of Ed and pushed his way to a small desk in the far corner of the room. "There's gotta be something." He ripped the drawers out of the writing table one by one, finding each completely empty.
"There isn't Dean," the demon insisted. Completely ignoring him, Dean turned his attention to a bookshelf. "Dean-" He pulled books off, shoved his hands behind delicate ceramic figures, and knocked over picture frames. "Trust me, there's nothing." Ed continued.
"No-" Dean shook his head in rejection.
"Dean-"
"No-" He glanced the room in frustrated denial.
"Dean," Ed placed a forceful hand on his shoulder. "Let it go."
"I can't let it go!" Dean erupted as he swiped Ed's grip from his shoulder. "I can't- and you know I can't!" His breath huffed sharply from his chest as the accusation burst from his lips. "Don't you! It's why you did this! Taped him up again! You're screwing with me!"
"Dean-"
"You are! Cause you know!" His words slowed. "Cause you know…" Dean stared at him, venomous. "You know what I went through that first night. You wanted me to go through it. You set it up- ALL of it- you had to!" His voice burst again as he remembered. "Forty-five minutes for a fucking ambulance?! For a fucking cop?! For fucking anybody!?" He gave a dry laugh then seized Ed and slammed him against the wall. "What did you do to delay them?" He interrogated gruffly. "Huh Ed? What!? What lengths did you go to keep us there- alone?"
His grip was relentless, but as no response came, the hunter's hold gradually dropped away; he gradually dropped away. Distraction took over- thoughts- images- and bit by bit his memory evoked every painful sensation from that night. A wound was reopened, and the words slipped from it.
"You…" he spoke numbly, as if in two places. "You made me sit there- all that time- holding his wound -holding him-- and I couldn't do a thing- not a god damn thing except wait- wait, and think about how angry he was that I gave him shit about coming after him, and how angry he was that I couldn't cut that damn tape off him- and knowing- knowing- that the real reason he was pissed -wasn't because of the phone call- or because of the tape- but because I'd sent him out there in the first place- for fucking ice cream- for fucking nothing!
"Well I'm sorry! He'll never believe how sorry! But I was sorry then and I suffered then! I suffered at the convenience store, and I suffered at the hospital, and I've sure as hell suffered for the past two and a half weeks with the lies and the avoidance and the repeated times he went missing- so enough! Don't keep making me look at him bound in that tape! Don't keep throwing it in my face what a letdown I am to him!"
His breath pulsed through the room, rippling an almost visible angst to its furthest corners and back. He could feel it against his skin, between his fingers, on the back of his neck: an enraged energy that connected everything. Gradually it dissipated, silently lost mass, and all that remained was himself, and Ed.
Ed stood against the wall, arms folded, expression calm, the faint spark of accomplishment in his eyes. For a moment he did nothing, then he reached behind his back and retrieved what had been so strategically concealed. He offered it forward: a knife, Dean's knife, bright and shining, ready for use.
"Sonofabitch," Dean gasped. He stepped forward and snatched the blade from the demon's hand. He shook his head in true aversion, then turned to face the other side of the room. He stopped cold.
Awake, Sam sat edged up on the couch, his wounded gaze hurting straight across the room- straight into Dean.
"Sam…" He tried to get a grip, tried to absorb just how much his brother had heard. "Sammy I-"
"Dean no," Sam stopped him. "You…" With disbelief, "Forty-five minutes?" He looked to his sibling for answers, for reason. Nothing came but a diminished shrug. "Dean, why didn't you-? I mean you never-"
"You were hurt," Dean justify flatly. "It didn't matter what I'd been through." Sam felt the slash of his brother's selfless logic.
"That's crap," he returned bluntly.
"Excuse me?"
"I said it's crap," Sam repeated in total frankness. "It does matter what you've been through, Dean. It matters because I put you through it."
"Sam, whatever you're-"
"Dean I caused this!" Sam avowed firmly. "I caused it and put you through hell!"
Completely staggered, Dean ceased his efforts; the knife lowered to his side, and he surrendered to silence.
"Dean you- you may have given me a hard time, but all I needed to do was talk to you, just stand up and-" Sam took a heavy breath "-but instead I lied, and evaded, and knocked every effort you've made to fix things. And you have tried… you have. It's just… on the phone that night, after I'd been shot, when you wouldn't listen, when you wouldn't-"
"Sam forget it," Dean blocked. "Just-"
"No, no listen to me- I wanted you to suffer, Dean! I did! I wanted to punish you and that's exactly why I hung up! But later, when you asked me about it, I didn't… it just snowballed, one thing after the other until I was deeper and deeper, and no matter how I looked at it, I just- I couldn't see coming out of it without you being furious with me." Sam looked down at his bound hands, at just how far this had gone. "I could have stopped this so many times," he admitted desperately, "but instead I fought you, constantly, because I wanted you to be sorry… because I wanted to punish the hell out of you for being- for being a fucking jerk."
Sam's words closed out into silence.
long…
awkward…
silence.
Eventually, Dean took a breath.
"Ooo-kay then." He exhaled curtly. "Good. Good to know."
"Dean..." Sam groaned.
"No. No," his bruised ego insisted. "I'm a jerk. You're right. I deserve what I got."
"That's not-"
"Don't sugar coat it Sammy," Dean belabored. "I'm a jerk- so just- I'm a jerk."
"You are a jerk," Sam confirmed. "But you're also," he sighed indecisively, then conceded, "you're also my hero, Dean."
"What?" Dean downplayed dumbly.
"You need me to repeat it?" Sam griped. "Fine- jerk. You're my hero! Okay?"
"I uh…" Dean stuttered. "I- er um…"
"Don't hurt yourself Dean. Look just- what's so hard here? I mean, this can't be a surprise."
"Err…"
"Dean," Sam scolded. "You're my big brother. Come on! I've looked up to you my whole life." Dean wandered to the edge of the couch, lightly kicked at its underside in an offhand sort of way, then modestly relinquished.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Sam laughed wryly at his brother's sudden lack of arrogance. "Yeah Dean, okay, but that's exactly why it- well it sucks when you boss me around. I mean, you treat me like crap, completely disregard what I'm thinking or doing, and I just stand there and take it because I'm afraid if I don't-" Sam suddenly and seriously dropped his thought. Dean gauged him.
"What?"
"It's stupid," Sam dodged warily. Dean stepped around the edge of the sofa and sat down on the coffee table. His kid brother glanced over and timidly stared at him through mussed bangs. Dean shook his head.
"Sammy," he pressed. "Whatever it is, man just say it." Sam tensely tugged at a string on his jeans.
"Well I guess," his words trudged forward like forced footsteps, "sort of my whole life I've felt like if I don't- ya know- keep in check. If I don't do every stupid little thing you tell me that you'll- well maybe you won't…"
"Won't what? That I won't like you?" Dean sarcastically filled the blank.
Sam glanced over, hesitated nervously, then came clean with a simple shrug.
"Are you serious?!" Dean burst with astonishment. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, yet he knew there was truth to it. He coughed out a dry laugh. "Sammy, look, I can't believe you've got me saying this, but… there isn't anything you could do- or not do- that would stop me from liking you. Ever."
"I know," Sam mumbled as he continued to play with the shredded string.
"Yeah well… then quit all this shit," his brother argued. "Seriously Sam. If I'm pissing you off, stand up to me. If I'm outta line- put me in line. I may not like it- but won't not like you." Sam gave a small nod. "What was that?" Dean pushed. Sam rolled his eyes and with an aggravated yank, popped the string from his jeans.
"O-kaay," he conceded loud and long. "I get it." He flicked the string onto the floor and tossed exasperated eyes onto his sibling.
"Good," Dean stated determinedly. He paused for a moment, then without hesitation, smacked his brother in the head. "Idiot," he jeered.
"Jerk," Sam returned.
"Yeah, so I've heard." Dean jabbed smartly. "Now shut up and hold still." He edged closer to the couch. "Let's get this tape off you."
With much effort Dean sliced through the defiant tape at Sam's chest. He steadily sawed the blade through its full width, then grabbed hold and began to yank it free one tedious inch at a time. Sam gritted his teeth and quietly endured until the final section was ripped from his bare arms.
"Damn, that was a bitch to get off you," the older hunter grumble. He wadded the bulk of tape into a large tangled ball and tossed it behind him. Grabbing his knife back up, he motioned for his brother to turn toward him. "Okay- wrists," he instructed.
Sam held his hands out and kept them steady as his brother slid the knife between his wrists and began to cut. The binding was thick and responded as if the wrong side of the blade were being used. Sam blew the hair out of his eyes and tried to sit patiently. He stared at the floor, then at the couch, and finally located a semi-interesting hole in the cushions. He studied it for an extended moment, then looking up, realized his brother had stopped cutting.
Dean just sat there, the knife resting lifeless within his grip, the job it had begun turned nothing but an empty chore. His total focus lay fixed upon the tape, staring at the dull, silver adhesive as if it had said something to him, as if it had stepped forward and unkindly reminded: 'you were wrong'.
"You really did let him tape you up." The matter of fact comment spilled out suddenly. "Didn't you?" Dean raised his head and met his brother's eyes. Sam felt sick, but could only answer the truth.
"Yeah," he confessed quietly. Dean shook his head and huffed out a small breath.
"Ya know… Ed said you would," he admitted. "He swore to it, but- I wouldn't believe him." He glanced at his brother. "He also said… well he said you had a need to be rescued by me, by your big brother." An uncomfortably flattered smile spread across his face. "Crazy right?" The smile broke and his words slipped into that of a confession. "Except it kind of stuck with me, ya know? Why would you want that? Why would you want to be in so much trouble that you'd need me to come get you out of it?" He stopped for a moment, contemplating what he hated suspecting. "Unless… unless you weren't sure I would come get you out of it."
Sam looked away. It was such a small action, such a small, totally revealing action.
"Sammy…" he treaded carefully. "Did you… did you need to see if- well if I'd worry about you? Because I did," Dean admitted bluntly, "I worried like hell." His voice broke on the last word and faded to silence.
Dean waited; Sam said nothing. The kid was paralyzed, utterly: small gasping breath wracked his upper body, his eyes hollowed to an inward void, emotion pulsed in concentrated waves, everything he was - turned outward.
Sam coped, and Dean watched, and with passive understanding, came altered introspective. Within moments Dean understood exactly what Ed had meant when he'd said: 'I can feel your thoughts'. It wasn't some weirdo demon trick, it was simple awareness. If he focused, if he paid attention, he could feel what his brother was going through; translating that into actual thoughts wasn't exactly the task of a messiah. Dean reached out and placed a caring hand on his kid brother's shoulder.
"Hey," he said gently. "It's okay." Sam slowly looked over, apprehension shaking him. "I get it," Dean assured, "I do." He smiled. "I uh… I don't exactly show that I care in very-" he cleared his throat, "straight forward ways."
There was a prolonged silence. Sam shook his head in amazement, then relief and gratitude slipped from him in the form of laughter. He smiled at his brother's out of character confession.
"Yeah well," he broke though the heavy mood, "you did share your pie last night." "That's right," Dean agreed excitedly. Then, with a finger snap, "And my fork!" He reminded. "Don't forget the fork!" Unable to help himself, Sam cracked up.
"Yeah, your fork," he laughed. "I didn't forget."
Sam scratched the back of his head awkwardly, his bound hands doing the best they could; he dropped them back into his lap and looked over at his brother. Dean casually spun his knife in dangerous circles on the coffee table. He glanced up mid-spin.
"We okay?"
"Yeah." Sam nodded. "Yeah, we're good."
Dean hesitated, then-
"You okay?"
"Yeah," Sam's breath caught in his throat, "yeah, I am… thanks."
"Okay," Dean replied with a trace of scrutiny. He flipped his knife up into his hand, took a beat, then beamed gloatingly. "So… I'm your hero, huh?"
"Dean…" Sam groaned and flopped back onto the couch.
"Don't be embarrassed Sammy. I know I was modest earlier, but I can see where it's hard for you to deny my superhuman, godlike qualities on a daily basis." Dean mugged his godlike qualities for his brother's benefit.
"De-e-ean…." Sam mock cried and banged his head against the couch cushions.
"So is it a bad ass Dark Knight thing I'm sporting?" Dean persisted zealously. "Or are we talkin' 007: sophisticated and deadly?" He looked to Sam in eager anticipation.
"More like, 'Knight Rider'," Sam stated factually. "The eighties version."
"Dude, don't even try to compare the Impala to freakin' K.I.T.T.!"
"I wasn't really comparing… the Impala."
"Good! Because there's no comparison! Although it'd be cool if I could call her by talking into my watch," Dean realized. "Of course, I'd have to get a watch…" he distractedly ran the scenario.
"Dean!" Sam broke through impatiently. "Little brother, still bound in tape here!" He waved his linked wrists in his brother's face.
"Oh, right," Dean remembered.
He slipped the knife between Sam's wrists and began to cut. Without resistance, the blade slid clear through, clean and easy. The boys glanced at one another, a bit perplexed. Sam eyed the tape as Dean grabbed hold and gave it a sharp yank; it pulled free in one smooth, painless motion.
"Well that was… easier," Sam offered.
"Yeah," Dean agreed, "easier."
A scowl of mistrust shaped the older hunter's forehead. He pursed his lips, grabbed his brother's feet, and swept them onto the coffee table with a heavy clunk. Sam's knees propped up at an angle and he fell back against the couch. Through messy bangs he watched as his brother guardedly stuck the knife into the tape. With no additional effort, it tore straight up the middle, curled away from his legs, and fell to the floor.
Dean gaped at it for one silent moment, then-
"Oh come on! Are you kidding me!?" He stood and threw up his arms, completely livid. "So what, Ed gets his little talk out of us and the tape just falls off you!?" Sam glanced around. "Sonnofa-"
"Where is Ed?" Sam worried suddenly.
"What?" Dean took in his brother's expression and did his own room glance. "He was right over…" Dean motioned to the wall he had left Ed leaning against.
"Ed!" Sam hollered as he stood up.
Dean took off toward the only concealed part of the room. He turned the corner to the stairwell, but half a second later was back.
"He's gone," Dean announced shortly. Before Sam could react, his brother's expression shifted. "Wait a minute," he grumbled in an uncertain tone. Dean ran to the deck doors and peered through a crack in the barricade. "Oh you can't be serious," he protested.
In one, hard shove Dean pushed away the wooden table cover to reveal the view through the clear glass doors: late day sun brightened the light blue sky, the field stretched back to the barn, its tall yellow grass waving in the breeze, and in the middle of it all, the colorfully painted pick up truck sat filled with equally colorful bales of hay. In short, everything was back to exactly the way it had been.
Dean straightened his posture, tightened his fists, and exhibited restraint.
"I'll kill him," he stated factually. Sam came to the door and gazed out it.
"What?" He questioned, completely out of the loop. "Dean, what are you looking at?" Dean shoved open the glass door, stepped out onto the deck, and absorbed it all from a slightly closer point of view.
"I'm going… to kill him," he sustained.
"Dean, what's going on?"
"You wanna know what's going on? I'll tell you what's going on: ED! That's what! Your stupid Guardian Demon!" Dean's limit burst. "I can't believe I- GRRR!" He threw his hands wide, fingers hooking into the anger infused air. "This thing!" He bellowed. "This WHOLE thing! The zombie cats! The- the freakish B-Movie night lighting! The barricading ourselves in! It was all him, Sam! All part of his great big plan- his great big trap- to grant your wish!"
"Dean, are you sure," Sam questioned skeptically, "I mean…"
"Fuck yeah I'm sure! The cats showed up the second I blew our cover! He wasn't waylaid, he was fucking prepared!" Dean reasoned. "The bastard knew he couldn't trust me! Those things were his god damn back up plan!"
"Uh.. okay," Sam semi-accepted, "but-"
"Awwww- and the bullets!" He realized with a head slap. "Fuck. He wasn't tired from manifesting ammo, he was freakin' exhausted because he was a walking battery pack for a field full of fur-balls!"
"Battery wha-?"
"And I went along with it," Dean bitched, "ALL OF IT! I played along like some stupid… idiotic…"
"Jerk?" Sam interjected.
"You really gotta stop calling me that," Dean warned, dead pan. "But yeah… jerk."
Dean walked to one of the deck chairs and slumped down into it. He gazed out at the field and shook his head dejectedly.
"Dean," Sam tried, "Dean, come on. You had no choice, man," he insisted solidly, "and you did question it. You asked him flat out and he said the cats weren't his. You went along with it because you had to, because the only way to figure this out, was to ride it out."
"I guess," Dean pouted. Sam crossed his arms against his chest and raised an eyebrow. Dean rolled his eyes. "FINE," he agreed. "Fine. I had to," he conceded with a sigh. "I just… arrgh!" Dean pushed out of the chair and stomped across the deck. "He makes me so freakin' mad!"
"I can see that." A very amused smile spread across Sam's face.
"It's not funny, Sam. You were out for half of it. You didn't see all the crap he put me through: ordering me around, blowing holes in walls, acting all cool, like he's the man. He's not the man, Sam! He's not even a man!" Sam shook his head, completely taken aback.
"Dean, what's your deal?" He issued in an accusatory tone. "Ed was only doing his job, what I summoned him here for. And it's not like we made it easy for him, either. We were kind of a pain in his ass."
"That's it Sam, keep defending him!"
"I'm not defending him. I'm just saying-"
"I know what you're saying."
"Wha-" Sam faltered, "what am I saying?"
"You're gonna miss him!" Dean concluded, short and annoyed.
"I'm- Dean. Come on man- I'm not…"
"Oh admit it Sam," Dean turned on him. "I saw the look on your face when you realized he was gone."
"Dean I-" Sam wavered, caught. "What does it matter? I mean-"
"It doesn't," Dean relinquished. "Forget it." He shoved a lawn chair out of his way and made for the stairs to the upper deck. "Let's just get our stuff and get outta here." He headed up the stairs.
"Uh… okay," Sam resigned. "If you want, but I-" Sam's voice cut short as the totally insane realization hit him. "Holy shit," he gasped. Dean stopped at the sound of Sam's insight infused curse words and turned around.
"What?" He asked curtly. A stunned smirk tugged at the corner of Sam's mouth. Dean's expression soured. "Sam- what?!"
"Are you…" Sam ventured, "are you jealous?"
"What?!" Dean blurted uncomfortably. "Are you smokin' rock salt? There is absolutely- " searching "-you're crazy!"
"You are!" Sam shouted, practically jumping with giddiness. "You're jealous!"
"I am not jeal- Sammy you take that back right now!"
"HA!" Sam punched out verbal laughter. "Look at you! You can't even deny it!"
"There's nothing to- that's the stupidest-" Dean flustered into a complete loss. "No pie for you!" He burst abruptly, and with that, turned and stomped his way upstairs.
After several moments, Sam shut his gaping mouth. He leaned back against the wooden slats of the house, combed both hands through his hair, and shook away his extended disbelief.
"Huh." He smiled to himself. "Dean jealous… of Ed." He laughed slightly, then his humor sank. Of Ed, he remembered sadly. Sam pushed himself off the house and turned to look back through the sliding doors, back into the game room. His eyes panned the stagnant space from corner to corner. Nothing had changed; it remained in the slight mess of which they had left it. He placed a hand on the cool metal frame of the door and slowly pulled it shut.
"You almost ready?" Dean called from the bathroom. He tossed a few stray toiletries into his bag, zipped it shut, and came to the door. "Sammy!" His voice jolted in a 'snap out of it' tone. Sam broke from his thoughts and looked at his brother.
"Huh?" He asked vacantly.
"I said 'are you ready?'"
"Oh," he replied. "Uh… yeah. Just a couple more things."
"Cool." Dean flung his bag out onto the bed and shut himself into the bathroom.
Sam turned back to the dresser and tried to remember what it was he was doing. One of the drawers was open. He grabbed the socks from its dark wooden interior and tucked them into his bag. Giving the drawer a quick check for missed objects, he shoved it shut and pulled open the one above it. Shirts, he curled his hand around a large stack and pulled them to his bag. In the process something heavy and metal clunked out onto the wood. Sam stared at his handgun: there it was, right where he had put it, not missing or moved as it had been when Ed faked him out only an hour earlier. He brushed away his feelings and placed the gun with the rest of his stuff.
Sam shoved the drawer shut and walked to the bed. He picked up the rest of his things and whatever else he could carry. His brother exited the bathroom with a distracted look and wet hands; he wiped them on his jeans.
"I'm heading down," Sam informed. Dean didn't respond. Instead he plowed through the contents of the room: he tossed up comforters, flung towels out from under dressers, and finally got down on the floor and splayed his body perfectly flat against it. Sam narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing?"
"My jacket," Dean updated from under the bed. "I can't find my leather jacket." Sam had completely forgotten, and even now sort of wished he hadn't remembered. "It's not in the car," Dean eliminated, "it's gotta be here."
"Uhhhh…" Sam droned reluctantly.
"What?" Dean cross-examined as he popped up from behind the bed. "Have you seen it?" Sam evaded the subject as he slowly backed from the room.
"You might wanna," he made a run for it, "checkunderthatchair!"
"What chair?" Dean shouted. "What chair!?"
Sam was halfway out the screen door when-
"SONNOVOBITCH!" His brother's voice rattled through the house and practically threw him from it like a hero tossed to the sky in the last seconds of a well timed explosion.
"Guess he found it," Sam snickered as he stumbled down the porch steps and out into the yard.
As he reached the Impala the aftermath of everything fell stagnant and he gazed upon the yard. He couldn't believe all that had happened, how long it had dragged out, and then how suddenly it had all come to an end. He braced his things under one arm and opened the trunk.
Looking inside, trying to find room, he wondered how Ed had successfully shoved him in there. Quickly, he decided not to think about it. He tossed his bags amongst the wreckage of stuff and prepared to close them inside. As he reached for the trunk he stopped short, smiling warmly as he felt it.
"Hey Batty," he greeted without looking down. The small kitten continued to brush against his ankle as Sam stooped to the ground and picked it up.
"Mew," the cat talk came followed by a content purr as Sam scrubbed his fingers behind its ears. He stood back up and curled the soft kitten to his chest.
"How ya doing?" He asked, making conversation. "It's good to see you." He stalled for a moment then, "you wouldn't happen to know where Ed is, would ya?" Ignoring the question, the kitten continued to purr, licked the edge of his finger twice, and tucked itself comfortably into the palm of his hand.
"Yeah, didn't think so," Sam concluded dejectedly. He reached up and pulled the trunk shut.
"Didn't think what?" The recognizable voice came out of nowhere.
Sam looked up to find Ed standing directly in front of him, dramatically revealed by the closing of the trunk.
"Ed!" He gasped.
"Hey kid," he greeted with a smile. "What did you think, I'd leave without saying goodbye?"
"Well…" Sam bashfully averted, "it was sort of looking like that."
"Never," Ed stated firmly. "I just wanted to give you and your brother some alone time."
"More like you didn't want to be there when he freaked out," Sam figured. Ed laughed.
"Actually," he smirked, "I was sort of sorry to miss that part." Sam cracked up. "He's a good guy… your brother." Ed stated in an indisputable manner. Caught by the sudden sincerity, Sam took a moment and truly thought about it.
"Yeah," he agreed with a shy smile, "he is."
"And you're lucky to have him," Ed added.
"Yeah," really realizing, "I am."
"But…" Ed amended mischievously; Sam raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sorry I put him through all that." He reached out and pet Batty. "I mean, come on, I deserve some job perks." Sam pretended to consider it.
"I guess." He shrugged flippantly.
"You guess?" Ed exclaimed, highly insulted. Sam kept a straight face as long as he could, then broke into laughter. Ed shook his head at his own arrogance infused gullibility.
"Nice, kid."
Sam grinned proudly. He glanced down as Batty stood up in his hands and began to squirm. Gently, he dropped the kitten onto the trunk and watched as it leapt to the ground and scruffed at Ed's ankles.
"Hey um…" he scraped the back tire of the Impala with the tip of his shoe, "sorry if this was such a hard job for you." He looked up and straight at Ed. "What I mean is... sorry if I made it hard."
Recognition struck Ed and his stance softened.
"Kid," his eyes turned sympathetic, "you always did the best you could- through every moment of this- you did," he added with assertion. He took a breath and chose his words decisively. "You just- you were focused on the wrong things- on the wrong goal-"
"On the wrong wish?" Sam guessed. Ed gave a small, knowing smile. "I was thinking about it," Sam confided, "while I was packing my stuff, about what it was I really wanted that night. About what I've really wanted this whole time." He stared off pensively. "That talk- it was about me, wasn't it?" He looked to Ed. "None of this was about changing Dean; it was about changing myself."
An unfamiliar sort of pride swept Ed; he sized up the young man before him.
"And have you?" He asked earnestly. "Sam, what I'm asking is- was that talk a one time thing, or are you going to speak your mind, and be who you are, and not worry that saying or doing the wrong thing might push away the people who care about you?" Ed thought of the last few weeks, of all the times he had been knocked off his game, of the irrational empty feeling which tugged at his insides. "Because people do care about you." He pushed the words out in a shaky declaration, intentionally letting Sam understand him- really understand what it was he was saying.
"They do?" The kid ventured hopefully.
"Yeah," Ed confirmed with a bitter-sweet smile. "Yeah kid... they care about you a lot."
An aching mix of feelings wrenched through Sam. He shoved his hands into his pockets, bit his lower lip, and not for a second attempted to hide how he felt. Sparse tears ran down his cheek as a mass of emotion shuddered through him. He worked his mouth as if to say something, when nothing came out, he dug deep, pulled up his nerve, and-
with a severe slam the screen door flung open.
"Stupid cats! I hate them! ALL of them!"
Sam suddenly found himself twisted around, watching as his older brother stomped down the front porch steps tantrum style. He exhaled roughly, annoyed almost, and turned back to the moment he had been so unfairly pulled from:
Ed was gone.
Sam didn't bother to search, he knew that was it, the last appearance. He brushed the evidence of tears from his eyes and sighed miserably. It was time to return to life.
Dean stalked across the yard, straight to his brother.
"This is crap," he complained flat out. "That stupid kitten did this and I'll kick its tail to hell and back if I ever set eyes on it again!" Sam didn't respond, he barely even listened as he turned around and sat against the trunk of the Impala. Dean thrust his leather jacket into his kid brother's face. "Smell my jacket, Sammy!" Sam skillfully dodged the stink coat as he kept to his thoughts. "It smells like sour milk!" He bitched. "And that's after scrubbing it with a towel for five minutes! Damn it!" He whipped around his brother, opened the back driver side door, and threw his stuff onto the seat. "How am I supposed to pick up chicks, smelling like cat vomit?" He grabbed the door and began to slam it shut, then held up. Narrowing his eyes, Dean ducked his head into the back of the car. After a moment he popped back out and rushed to the front left headlight. "Hey," he exclaimed, "my car's fixed!" He stuck his head through the open driver side window. "And it's clean!" He pulled his head back out. "Well, not really clean- but it's back to the way it was."
Dean stepped forward with a big grin and rested his hands on the open door of the Impala. He waited for a response and then realized one wasn't coming.
"Sammy?" He lightly pushed the back door shut and walked to the edge of the car. "Hey- you okay?" He asked. "Sam…" he placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, finally breaking the kid from his thoughts. Sam turned, slightly unsettled. "You alright?" Dean tried again. Sam gave a short nod.
"Yeah," he relinquished quietly. Dean knew what was bothering him, and that there was little he could do about it. He gave his brother's shoulder a hefty shake, followed by a light punch.
"Come on," he said, smiling encouragingly. He waited for Sam to give another nod, then walked off and returned to the car.
Sam remained seated against the trunk. He stared out at the yard, at the house, at the field, and in the far distance, the barn. The sun was lower in the sky, yet nowhere near ready to set. He pulled in a deep breath, and hearing his brother call for him again, pushed off the back of the car. Sam dragged his feet to the passenger door and got in. The Impala was running, ready to go, but his brother seemed far from stepping on the gas.
Sam remained distracted in thought as his brother scavenged through the vehicle. Dean searched under the driver seat, then threw some things around in back, and finally leaned full down with his head awkwardly between his brother's feet and began digging beneath the passenger seat.
"Where the hell's the map?" He finally complained in explanation.
Sam spread his knees further apart as his brother began throwing random objects up into the car.
"How the hell did-" he hurled an old cheese burger bag clear into the back seat. "Shit, I've been looking for-" he flung half an EMF reader up onto the console. "August '06, she has one sweet set of-" he shoved the playboy magazine straight back where he'd found it. "What the-" he pitched a small bag smack into his brother's lap. "It's gotta be- jackpot!" He pulled the map from the furthest depths of the car, pushed himself back into his seat, and began to inspect it. As he followed the route with his finger, he rattled off a game plan of food, gas stops, and where they could be by nightfall; Sam heard none of it.
From the moment the shiny, red bag landed, Sam had found himself drawn into miserable thoughts of discontent. He stared at the taunting bag of Skittles and sadly reminisced. It was over, and closure or no closure it needed to be put behind him. He reached down, picked up the bag, tore it open, and dumped the entire thing out into his hand.
Totally oblivious, Dean threw the map into the back seat, shifted the car into drive, and only came to an abrupt halt when he noticed the expression on his kid brother's face.
"Sammy?" He asked curtly. "Hey, you sure you're okay?"
A slow smile spread across Sam's face as he stared down at the contents in his hand: every single Skittle from the bag… was blue.
Completely astonished, Sam laughed lightly to himself.
"Sammy-" his big brother repeated impatiently. "I asked if you're okay?"
"Yeah," Sam answered without thinking. He looked up at his brother, and realizing he actually meant what he had said, added, "yeah… I'm great." Dean narrowed his eyes, looked down at the Skittles, then back up at his brother.
"You drop even one of those in my car," he threatened, "and I swear to god I'll shove you through that hole in the floor." Sam placed a firm hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Aww Dean," he consoled cheerfully, "don't be jealous. You know I'd choose you over Skittles any day."
Dean's arrogance hastily drained from his face. He eyed Sam for being the weird little brother that he was.
"Freak," he muttered. He shook Sam off his shoulder, then reached and shoved a beat-up tape into the deck. With an abrupt burst his music pounded into the car. Sam casually stretched forward and turned it up. Dean did an extreme double take, eyes landing on his kid brother. "Again, I'm gonna ask, you sure you're okay?"
The younger Winchester smirked, lifted his hand, and shook as many Skittles into his mouth as would fit.
"Yup-" he mumbled, mouth full and grinning. Dean raised an amused eyebrow.
"Okay then," he said with a laugh, "we're outta here." He slapped the dashboard, stepped on the gas, and tore the Impala out of the lot.
As they revved along the winding dirt road, Sam looked down at the small pile of sugary blue candy which remained in his hand. Smiling to himself, he sunk back into the seat, sighed contently, and attempted to chew the giant wad of Skittles; they may not have been a rainbow of flavors, but they were sure as hell the best damn candies he had ever crammed into his mouth.
The End
