THIS ROAD I TRAVEL

By Chemm80

The sun's just a glow skimming the horizon when they climb into the car. Sam says it's six hundred miles (give or take) to Bumfuck, Nebraska, or wherever he's dragging Dean's ass off to. The thing is, Dean's been to Nebraska and he really wonders what kind of self-respecting specialist would plop himself down in the middle of all that corn.

But they go, because Sam can't have it any other way. Sam drives and Dean sleeps most of the morning, like he's been doing pretty much every day for the last several days. He feels like he's missing something by spending so much time out of it when he's so close to the end of it all, but he can't really care too much about it. It's not like he's in any shape to do anything useful, as in killing something. And the scenery—well, it's just a lot of fucking corn.

There's miles of it, in fact, standing in regiments that slosh in muddy brown from the spring rains. It's not very tall, but it's green and leafy and noisy as it waves in the breeze. Dean's never really paid much attention to growing things before, other than to wonder what species of evil they might be hiding, maybe to feel mildly grateful when they covered him in his turn. He's not particularly inspired by them now.

It pisses him off that he can't drive, but it's just one more thing he doesn't have the energy to fight Sam over. And he's got to admit that Sam has a point. Passing out behind the wheel wouldn't be so bad if there was just him to think about—going out in a ball of fire in the Impala sounds like a hell of a lot better death than wasting away in some hospital bed—but he doesn't particularly want to take Sam out with him. And since Sam's stuck to his side like a stubborn cocklebur for the duration, Dean's stuck with shotgun.

It's not really so bad. If there's a place he feels any peace at all, it's right here inside this shell of Detroit steel. Today he feels almost like he's part of the car, like he's started to melt into it, all his tension evaporated into her slipstream with the miles. He wonders if the feeling is something physical, like maybe his body is laying down arms, surrendering one cell at a time. Or maybe it's some other kind of letting go he's doing. Either way, Sam seems determined to manage the situation, and Dean along with it.

"Get off me, Sam! I can fucking walk by myself"

"Fine. Cranky."

"Maybe I wouldn't be cranky if I had a goddamned cup of coffee!"

"The doctor said it's not good for your…for you. And anyway, fixing your moody morning bullshit—that's asking a lot from a cup of coffee."

"Funny."

It's irritating and degrading, all the hovering Sam's doing, but Dean's got to admit this go-round of Sam's stone-stubborn streak is easier to handle than what Dean's been dealing with over the last few months. At least his little crusade to save Dean keeps him close, not pinging off in all directions looking for Dad, who clearly will do almost anything not to be found.

Where the hell are you, Dad?

His stomach clenches with the thought and it catches him by surprise. Sam's determined to save him and Dean appreciates the thought, but he's not stupid enough to think the universe is going to cut him a break on this one. He's pretty clear about where he stands in the order of things—there's nobody up there watching over him. And Dad, well…a sick lump wedges itself in his throat and Dean swallows it down. Sam didn't say, but Dean knows he called Dad; knows just as well their father didn't answer, or Sam would have said. And even though it makes him feel like he's six years old, Dean wants him here. He wants his dad.

And Sam does too, Dean figures, partly from the way Sam's driving—shoulders tense, hands at ten and two, eyes straight ahead, except when he flicks them over at Dean. Which he does every seven seconds, right on the money; Dean's timed it. He turns his face to the window and closes his eyes.

Dean wakes to the sound of the Impala's engine cycling down in the dirt parking lot of a roadhouse. Sam says they're somewhere east of Omaha. The place is obviously a little past its prime, which isn't necessarily a sign the food isn't good, but there isn't another soul in the place, which probably is. Or maybe it's just off-peak hours; Dean doesn't know what time it is and doesn't really give a shit. He's not hungry anyway.

The waitress' food-spattered nametag says "Juanita" and when she asks them what they want to drink, Dean orders a beer. He's giving Sam the hard eye, daring him to object because he's a by-God adult and he'll drink a beer if he wants one. Dean's already made up his mind that if Sam says a word about it, he's going over this table swinging. It'll be the shortest fight he's ever started, Dean has no doubt. He's also sure it will end with him on the floor, but it's the goddamned principle of the thing.

But Sam doesn't say anything; just picks up the menu. He looks exhausted and Dean's not surprised. Dean seriously doubts that Sam had eight good hours of sleep the whole time Dean was in the hospital, and sleeping sitting up with an armful of your brother isn't exactly a prescription for a good night's rest either.

Dean orders the special, but he forgets what it was supposed to be as soon as the words are out of his mouth. When Juanita brings it to the table he thinks it might possibly be meatloaf, but he doesn't really know even after he's tasted it. Everything he eats is equally tasteless now and he thinks it really sucks that he can't even enjoy food anymore, when every meal might be his last. And okay, maybe that's overdramatic, but he figures he's entitled just this once. The beer honestly doesn't taste that great either, but he drinks about a third of it. On principle.

He's picked at his plate all he can stomach and he gets up from the seat, but not too fast—he's learned that lesson well and sharp.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Sam's eyes are red and raw-looking and Dean sees his own bone-deep fatigue reflected there, but it doesn't make it any easier for him to take. He palms the table and hisses it at him.

"I'm going to ask Juanita if she wants to run off to Mexico. Where do you think I'm going, Sam?"

Juanita must hear her name, because she looks over at them and Dean lowers his voice another notch.

"I'm going to the fucking bathroom because the fucking pills you keep pushing on me make me have to piss all the goddamned time!"

Dean knows it's not fair to blame Sam for the pills, or for any of it, and Sam knows

Dean knows it. It's all there in his eyes—what Sam feels, what he wants—just like it always is. He fairly radiates sympathy, worry and hope. Dean turns away.

He's panting and wheezing before he makes it halfway to the john, but he can feel Sam's eyes drilling into him all the way and he just needs to get the door between him and them. He slips inside, leaning his back against the door. The place is about what he'd expected, an old wooden stall over a concrete floor with a drain in the middle so they can hose it down after a particularly festive night of puking. He walks to the sink and leans on it with both hands trying to catch his breath, focuses on a brown spatter on the floor that could be tobacco, or possibly old blood.

Something suddenly clenches in Dean's chest, iron fingers folding themselves around his heart and squeezing hard, and Jesus, fuck, breathing's not even an option now. It fucking hurts and Dean clutches his chest. He curls around the pain and oh, goddamn it, he's never felt anything like this. A deadly certainty takes hold. He's going to die here on this filthy floor, and he's not even taking anything evil down to hell with him, he's just dying for nothing. Here lies Dean Winchester. Dead for hurrying.

He's slowly sliding off the sink edge on his way to a fetal position on the floor when Sam's suddenly there. Sam grabs Dean by the shoulders, then shifts his arms under Dean's, holding him up. He's saying something, Dean's not sure what; the roaring in his ears is too loud. Maybe Sam's calling his name, calling him back from the edge of something; and his pride can go fuck itself—for once Dean's just glad Sam's got hold of him.

Then finally—finally—the pain eases. Dean knows it's not done with him; it's just decided to slither back to its dark corner and bide its time. He's breathing in grunts and sobbing gulps and he doesn't care what it sounds like, just thinks it's never felt so good to be doing it. He's covered in sour sweat and his eyes meet Sam's in the mirror. Sam's skin is pale, but his eyes are dark and scared. His jaw is locked down tight, like he's fighting against the words that want to spill out, and he wins—the words don't come. He just wets a paper towel and hands it to Dean.

They've been back on the road for a silent hour when Sam clears his throat.

"So, about Dad…"

"Don't," Dean says, throws the word out between them like a shield, the only defense he has, and Sam bounces off it, frustration showing in his eyes. Sam goes quiet again. Dean knows him well enough to know that pushing him away won't be that easy, and he's expecting it when Sam tries again—he just isn't quite expecting it to come out of the ass-end of left field like it does.

"You slept through Iowa."

Dean's eyebrows draw together as he turns to face Sam.

"Yeah? I'm pretty sure that's the best way to cross Iowa, Sam."

Sam snorts softly.

"Actually I think I slept through at least part of it myself. But I did notice we passed through Springdale."

He says it like it should mean something to Dean, but he draws a blank.

"I give up. Why would I give a flying fuck if we went through Springdale, Iowa?"

"Remember? We spent that one summer there? I think I was maybe seven or eight."

Dean quirks his mouth and raises his eyebrows, thinking. He shakes his head.

"Nope. I got nothin'. Must have been pretty boring. Maybe I slept through that, too."

"Aw, it wasn't that bad, Dean. There were actually a few kids our age on the block."

Sam says it like it's something Dean would have cared about, but it was always Sam who made friends. Dean always knew people, sure—he had acquaintances, accomplices, partners in crime and sex—but rarely anybody close enough to call a friend. But Sam's still yammering on about it and Dean tries to follow what he's saying.

"You know—it was that crappy little two-bedroom place, Dad had to park the car on the dirt in front of the house because the street was so narrow…"

"Yeah, you're describing half the places we lived growing up. You'll have to narrow it down a little better than that."

Sam sighs. "It doesn't really matter, Dean. I was just thinking about Dad in the street that day…"

And there it is. The reason Sam's bringing up their past in some random town in Iowa. He wants to talk about Dad. Super.

"I really don't know what you're talking about, Sam," Dean says, yawning widely. Maybe Sam will let it drop if he acts tired. Not that it's much of an act.

"Don't you remember that? Man, I'll never forget it. That street was always full of little kids playing and whatever and that punk-ass kept flying up and down the street, doing about seventy. Until Dad put a stop to it, anyway."

"Oh yeah," Dean nods. "I remember that guy. Thought he was hot shit, driving some pansy-ass car—a Camaro, right?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know, Dean. I was pretty little."

"You wouldn't know what kind of car it was if you'd seen it yesterday," Dean mutters.

"That's not the point, Dean."

"Oh, there's a point? Sorry. I thought you were just trying to put me down for a nap."

Sam gives him a pissy look.

"Fine. Let's get it over with." Dean twirls his finger in a "go on" motion.

"I was out in front of the house that day with that kid from next door, Billy something…"

"Was that the kid with the runny nose? Always had snot crusted all over his sleeve?" Dean makes a face. "That was gross."

"What…no…I don't know, Dean. Again—not the point."

"Well, this point of yours is an elusive little fucker, Sam."

"It wouldn't be if you'd shut up for two seconds, Dean."

Sam clears his throat and tries again.

"Anyway. This guy had gone flying by the house about four or five times when Dad came stomping out. He had that look, you know?"

"'Fuck with me and die?'" Dean asks.

"That's the one." Sam smiles. "He walked straight to the middle of the street and just folded his arms and waited."

Dean grunts. "I do remember that part. Guy laid down about fifty feet of rubber trying to stop in time."

"Yep. Stopped about six inches from Dad's shin and Dad never blinked. Then the guy jumped out of the car and got all up in Dad's face."

Sam shakes his head.

"I couldn't believe the guy could take one look at Dad in Rambo mode and still have the nerve to get out of the car, much less start yelling at him. Hell, I was seven years old and I knew better than that."

"Wasn't nerve—it was stupidity."

"Yeah. I guess he figured that out when Dad grabbed a handful of that nasty-looking hair and shut it in the door of the car."

Dean snorts.

"And Dad just walked back in the house, left him stuck there, screaming like a little girl."

Sam chuckles.

"Never saw the guy around there again, though."

They ride in silence for a minute or so. Dean's starting to doze off when Sam speaks again.

"I'll tell you something, Dean. I didn't know about the hunting part then, but I knew that day—our Dad was a badass."

Dean hears what Sam isn't saying—nothing can hurt Dad. He's okay. He has to be. Dean looks over at Sam, than back at the road before he says it.

"Fuckin' Camaro-drivin' pussy."

Sam looks at Dean for a blink and then he cracks up. It sounds a little forced at first, but quickly escalates into full-on hysterics, which are contagious. Pretty soon Sam's wiping his eyes and has to pull over to keep from flipping them into the ditch. Dean's laughing too, but he's coughing as much as he's laughing and as soon as they stop he opens his door and swings his feet out onto the gravel of the shoulder. The laughter's dying out, but the coughing's still going on and he spits out a nasty-looking pink-tinged mess that Sam doesn't particularly need to see.

They calm down and catch their breath gradually, loose and relaxed for the first time in days. Dean turns back into his seat and Sam pulls back onto the road. Dean watches the sun slide smoothly below the orange horizon and his mind empties of thought. He wonders if this is peace. He sleeps.