Limited-Time Offer
K Hanna Korossy

"Next time we take a case like this, tell you what: let's not."

Sam's mouth twitched at the diatribe coming from the driver's seat.

"I mean, seriously, an old fort? How many people you think died there?" Dean glanced over at him.

"A lot," Sam dutifully answered.

"No kidding. And I'm guessing most of them had some kind of unfinished business or weren't too happy about kicking it." Dean's hands slid around the wheel, gripping and twisting.

Sam's eyes lingered on those hands as he absently said, "EMF wasn't too bad. I mean, considering."

"Yeah, but, dude, two days just to figure out what room we were looking for? The cleansing took less time than finding the place." Dean's jaw was tight, at odds with the casual grouchiness.

Sam's gaze flicked up to his brother's eyes, catching again the distant look that had characterized them the last few days. Dean's mouth was running on automatic, trying to distract both of them from what was really going on inside his head. Sam's eyes narrowed. "At least neither of us got tossed into any walls or throttled. I don't know about you, but I'm counting that a win."

"Yeah. Dude looked like he was just waiting to be put out of his misery."

"Which you didn't know when you jumped in front of me," Sam tried—and failed—again to curtail his frustration at his brother's reckless protectiveness. "Jackass move there, man."

"What? I'm just faster than you." Dean shrugged it off, as he had earlier. He smoothly returned to topic. "How long you figure the guy was there, trying to get some attention?"

"Uh, Fort McHenry? Francis Scott Key, The Star-Spangled Banner?" At Dean's continued baffled look, Sam blew out a breath. "It was the War of 1812, man."

"Oh." Dean threw him a sudden grin. "I'm gonna take a wild guess here and say that was in 1812?"

Sam obligingly rolled his eyes.

"So," Dean cricked his neck, "you found another hunt yet?"

"You're kidding, right?" Sam stared at him. "Dude, we just finished the last one. What's the rush?"

"Hey, places to be, things to kill, Sammy." He must've felt Sam's continued gawping, because he quickly continued, "But you're right, food first. You feel like a steak? I feel like a steak. Find me a good steak place around here, TomTom."

Sam gave him a withering look but pulled out his phone, starting to search.

"Better be some place that has beer. And pie. What's Maryland known for besides crabs? Apple pie? Coconut cream? Oh, hey, are we close enough to Penn to find some good shoofly pie? I love me some shoofly pie."

Sam's fingers paused on the phone as he cast another side glance at Dean. He'd told his brother the year before that he knew what Dean looked like when he was scared, because he'd been following him around, watching him, all his life. And this…this hyperactivity and underlying tension and kamikaze behavior and relentless appetite…this was what his brother looked like when he was terrified. Last year it had made sense, with Hell looming in the not-so-distance. But Dean had been there and back now. Without any memory of the place, he claimed, and Sam had believed him…until the last few days. Now, however, something had changed.

At first Sam had chalked it up to the aftereffects of ghost sickness. Talk about being scared: Dean had been in a near-constant state of panic for close to forty-eight hours. Even after Sam and Bobby had destroyed the ghost that was the cause, it made sense that some of the fear would linger. Dean had been shaky the rest of that day, locking himself in the bathroom for a long time after and not talking to Sam, and Sam couldn't blame him.

But that had been…four days ago now. He should be past that. And this wasn't the almost cartoonish fear Dean had shown then for tiny dogs and driving at the speed limit. This was something deeper, something that was eating Dean from the inside-out as he tried to squash it further down.

Like Hell. Dean had said he didn't remember, and Sam had looked him in his eye and believed him. Dean sure hadn't acted like a PTSD case. Okay, yeah, there was the way he constantly dodged sleep and often woke up in a frantic sweat. But that could all be subconscious stuff. It was pretty much only since Rock Ridge that he'd started to act this messed up.

"You find someplace yet?" Dean asked, making Sam start and blink.

"Uh, looking." Sam's fingers began to move again.

Then again, maybe Dean had already told him what was wrong. Who wants this life, Sam? Huh? Seriously….I'm done with it. I'm done with the monsters and-and-and-the hellhounds and the ghost sickness and the damn apocalypse. I'm out. I'm done. Quit.

Sam had written off his brother's rant as a symptom of the ghost sickness, but maybe it wasn't. All that had to come from somewhere. Maybe Dean really had just reached his limit and wanted out. After enduring Hell, Sam couldn't exactly blame him.

"Sam?"

"Okay, got one in Baltimore. It's, uh…take the next exit."

"Steaks and beer and pie?"

"Key lime and apple."

"Awesome. And if the waitress is hot, you might have to spend the night in the car, Sammy." Dean tossed him a leer.

But his eyes were stone-cold sober.

"Don't have to remind me, man," Sam said quietly. "I know you, remember?"

00000

Their server might have been hot, but he was also named Wes. Dean didn't seem that put out, diving into his steak and potato like a starving man. Sam nibbled at his crab cake while he watched his brother clean the table. He himself always lost his appetite when he was stressed, but Dean tended to throw himself into food and sex and hunting to take his mind off his pain. Just one of the many, many ways they were different.

There was one in which they were the same, though, and loss, Hell, demon blood, and angelic wisdom hadn't changed that: they were brothers, and they wanted the best for each other. No sacrifice too great.

Sam patted the pocket he'd slipped something into from the duffel before they'd entered the restaurant and, satisfied with his decision, went back to his crab cake.

Dean had three beers before he even reached dessert, so Sam had stopped at one. Then pie—apple, because always stick with the classics, Sammy—and more beer. Sam had long finished his own cheesecake by the time Dean was nursing his fifth drink.

It was time. Taking a breath, Sam reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the slip of paper, setting it on the table in front of his brother.

Dean eyed it without much curiosity. "What's that?"

Sam just drank some water, looking at Dean over the rim of his glass.

Dean made a face and picked up the paper. His expression shifted subtly as he saw it was a bank statement, the balance circled. He frowned at Sam. "You didn't spend any of it."

Sam set the glass down and shook his head.

"Dude, I saved that up for you, for when I was…"

Dead. The word lingered between them, poisoning the atmosphere.

Dean dropped the paper back to the table. "You should've used it."

Sam huffed, shaking his hair out of his face. "Man, you seriously think I was thinking about money while you were gone?" He hadn't touched Dean's nest egg even to buy booze.

Dean's gaze dodged his as he scraped microscopic remnants of mashed potatoes off his plate.

"But it's still there, and it's ours. Dean, there's enough to buy a house in some parts of the country. We could quit, settle down somewhere, just…be for a while, you know? Figure out what else we might wanna do besides hunting."

"Like law?" Dean asked pointedly.

Sam huffed. "Yeah, I think that ship's sailed. But I can do translation, or research. Hey, I could work in a warehouse if I had to. And any garage or construction site in the country would be an idiot not to hire you."

It was the alcohol that allowed Dean's cheeks to color at the compliment. He hadn't grown up with praise like Sam had. "Where's this coming from, Sam?" he asked, leaning back in his chair to finally look up at his brother.

Sam shrugged uncomfortably. "What you said in Rock Ridge made me think, you know? Who says we have to keep going? Think we've paid our dues, man, don't you?"

Dean studied him, and Sam stared back at him squarely, utterly sincere at that moment. There were things Dean didn't know, things Sam had done, that he was still doing, that he honestly wasn't sure about giving up. But he needed Dean to have this choice. Needed him to be…okay. Needed to look after his brother for once. And if that meant leaving the hunt…well, Dean had sacrificed far more for him.

Something hard and tight in Dean's eyes went soft. "I can't."

Can't, not don't want to. Sam opened his mouth to argue.

"I… There's stuff that… I have to keep going right now, Sam. If I stop…" He shook his head. "I can't. Not yet. You know?"

Sam couldn't help the relief, or the guilt at feeling so relieved. "Yeah, man," he said earnestly. "I do." He wanted Dean to be sure of him, too.

He'd had three years of normalcy at school, and it had taken just three years to lose it all. Now, miraculously, he'd gotten Dean back, and he was not blowing it this time. Sam picked up the bank statement and put it away. Back to the fight then, at least until they could finish off Lilith, and then… If they survived it, then maybe they'd both be ready to have this conversation again.

"But I'll tell you what that does mean," Dean suddenly spoke up, nodding at the pocket the bank statement had gone into.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Dean grinned over the top of his beer. "Means I'm also gonna have the chocolate cake."

And it wasn't all that funny or reassuring, but Sam couldn't stop his laugh.

The End