Summary – Set four years after 'Cracks In The Glass', Sam receives a phone call.

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks In The Glass, you'll probably want to read those first or this won't make any sense :)

Okay, this is just a tiny little ficlet set in my 'Full Moon, Fast Cars' universe. What can I say, I missed ex-student!Sammy and ex-teacher!Dean…

Endings

It had been raining non-stop ever since they drove over the Connecticut border line. The grey swollen skies and murky air matched the sombre mood in the car, Sam silent ever since the phone call two days ago. Dean didn't really understand his sadness, wasn't too sure he wanted to, his own anger at Jim Miller still burning bright despite the years that had passed since his first and only meeting with the man. He glanced over at Sam, sitting beside him in the passenger seat of the Impala. He was drawn up, quiet and exuding wistful melancholy in his continuous stare out of the window. The scenery was as grey as the low clouds, dull and dreary.

Sam received the call while Dean was in the shower. They'd returned from performing a messy exorcism and both had collapsed onto the bed, too exhausted to even undress. Eventually Dean had untangled himself from Sam's long limbs and stumbled dazedly into the bathroom of the shitty little motel. The muted sounds of the road outside echoed in his head as if he was hearing them underwater. He'd barely stepped into the shower when he heard Sam's cell ringing. Sam had answered and Dean half-listened to the muffled tones, almost dozing off under the warm water massaging his back. He didn't move when he heard the bathroom door opening, waiting for Sam to shed his clothing and join him under the spray. Except after a few moments passed and still no Sam, he stuck his head out from behind the grimy shower curtain. Sam had been sat on the toilet seat, his head cradled in his hands. He looked up at the sound, his eyes shell-shocked.

"Stephen just called me. My dad's dead."

Apparently it was the alcohol and not the hunt that had killed Jim Miller in the end. Sam had always known it would. It actually surprised him that the man had managed to hang on for another four years after Sam left him for the final time in that filthy motel room in Maine. But now he was dead, and Sam wasn't sure how to feel. He knew Dean was glad, would have killed the man himself if Sam had permitted it, and Dean's anger on his behalf made him feel warm inside. But despite his treatment of Sam, Jim had still been his father.

And there were some memories, few and far between and blurry with age, that made Sam pause.

Once when he had been about five, he remembered sitting in a hard wooden chair at a kitchen table somewhere. His legs had been too short to touch the ground, dangling off the edge of the enormous chair. His father had told him to polish his hunting knives and Sam had been meticulously carrying out the task, careful with the polish and the soft rag, shining each blade until he could see his face in it. He saved the biggest knife until last, the long hunting knife that had been bigger than his little arms and needed both his hands to hold the worn leather hilt. He'd been fascinated by the play of light on the sharp curves, turning it this way and that and smiling gleefully at the moving reflection it produced on the wall.

Then the knife had slipped out of his hands and fallen point down, cutting deeply into his leg just above the kneecap. Sam had screamed in surprise and pain and Jim had come running, picking him up and stripping his pants so he could inspect the wound. Without a word, he'd sat Sam on the counter top in the kitchen and washed the cut with a clean cloth and gentle wipes.

Sam had been too shocked to cry, had been expecting yelling and hitting. He had sat silent and unmoving as his father stitched and bandaged the wound. After it was taken care of, Jim had picked Sam up and taken him to his bedroom, a place Sam had never been allowed to enter before. He'd put Sam down in the centre of the big bed and pulled the covers over his body, then walked out without looking at his son once. Sam remembered his face, drawn and stretched tight like he was holding in tears. He'd been bewildered by it at the time, and then he'd looked at the small bedside table on his left and seen the framed photo of a smiling blonde woman holding a baby.

They reached the cemetery at dusk. Dean remained outside, sat on the hood of the Impala with his hands in his pockets while Sam found the small plaque emblazoned with his father's name next to that of his mother. Dean watched Sam from beyond the gates. Sam stood for a long time, staring at the words with no expression. The rain fell sluggishly around them, dripping off Dean's nose and running in his eyes. Finally Sam turned and walked back, his eyes on the ground in front of him. His feet dragged and caught in the grass and mud. There was a tiny frown creasing his forehead, the same look he got when he was deep in thought, puzzling through a case.

Dean didn't move as Sam approached, watching the younger man stop a few feet in front of him, both of them with hands pushed deep into pockets in unconscious imitation of each other.

"Sammy?" Sam looked up, meeting Dean's eyes.

"I know he was a terrible father. But he was still my dad, you know?"

"I know." Dean reached out a hand and Sam came forward to stand between his splayed legs, wrapping himself around Dean. He cupped the back of Sam's head, holding him close and rubbing his other hand up and down the younger man's back in soothing motions. He could feel moisture that might have been rain and might have been tears as Sam pressed his face into his neck, something he only did when he wanted to hide, to block out everything for a few seconds. They stood like that for a while, the rain falling around them like a curtain, and then Sam straightened up in his arms and smiled softly.

"Wanna go find a motel?"

He smiled back and kissed the tip of Sam's nose. "Yeah. Let's go."