Chapter Text
The sound of Bobby’s trick faded into faint bird song as the old man faded into the distance. The house was silent. Dean’s ears rang like bells in the silence only interrupted by the tick of a distant clock. Dean peaked through the curtain, hands leaving little marks in the thick cake of dust as he made sure Bobby was gone. His stomach twisted in sharp knots that had nothing to do with the warm meal that sat heavy in his belly. As the dust settled leaving no evidence of Bobby’s departure, Dean couldn’t help but feel sick.
It was surreal.
Bobby had left them alone. No chains or threats or locks. He trusted them. The thought left a warm feeling deep in Dean’s gut that rose like smoke freeing the chill from his bones. Bobby trusted him.
It felt so wrong but so nice. It was good. Too good.
Sam hovered a few steps behind. Scrawny arms wrapped around his chest. He looked from Dean to the door and back again in these rapid darting motions. He chewed his cheek.
“He’s gone,” Sam whispered, looking around, as if Bobby would appear with whips and chains. He grabbed Dean’s sleeve. “Dean, we can go. This is our chance.”
Dean let the curtain fall back sending spirals of dust as he turned to Sam. The heavy wool brushed Dean’s back like a reassuring hand. The fabric reminded him of Bobby. It smelled safe. It felt real. Nothing like the piss yellow plastic doors at the gas station and the rotting food swarmed with maggots. Here was clean. Here the food was good and warm.
Dean brushed Sam’s hand offand took both of them in his. “He said we could stay,” Dean said with a soft smile and dazed eyes. He crouched. “This can be our home, Sam. We can stay, we can be happy.”
Sam’s face twisted at his brother’s painful hope. The tears in the older boy’s eyes and the desperate, fragile smile as he said home. Dean wanted this but Sam had seen Dean hurt enough. He would not let Bobby hurt him. Sam pulled his hands out of Dean’s hands, mouth curling into a bitter scowl. “You believe him?”
Dean’s smile faltered and he straightened, turning away from Sam and leaning on the kitchen counter. He sighed as he purposely ignored Sam, washing dishes. Whenever he stepped left little splotches of clear fluid from his weeping blisters that had soaked through the thick socks. Sam grabbed Dean’s arm and forced the older boy to look at him. “Dean we need to go now. He’s gone.” He shook Dean. “We can get out.”
Dean turned away and put dishes to dry on the rack. Any trace of his smile was gone. His lower lip wobbling slightly. Sam’s heart ached but he pressed following Dean as he grabbed the cups from the table. “Please, Dean—”
“Sam,” Dean said quietly.
Sam didn’t listen. “There’s like twenty cars, at least one of them’s gotta work. I saw the bowl of keys. We can take one. We can go to Nebraska. We can get out, Dean. We can be free, we don’t have to stay—”
“Sam,” Dean snapped more harshly. He sighed, anger fading to an all too familiar tired resignation. “It’s nice here.”
Sam slammed his hand on the counter making Dean flinch. “He’s lying! Don’t you get it? How can you be so stupid after all this time? He’s waiting for you to let your guard down,” Sam hissed. “At least Coleman was honest.”
Dean scrubbed the cups harder removing imaginary smudges. “He didn’t punish you,” Dean whispered. “That’s gotta mean something.”
Sam made a sound of pure revulsion and kicked a chair. “He’s playing the long game, Dean! You always say I’m the smart one so listen to me!”
Dean went very still and took a shaky breath. “I don’t wanna be hurt anymore, Sammy. I’m staying.”
“You’re even dumber than Coleman said!” Sam ignored the pang in his chest as the tears that had been welling in Dean’s eyes rolled down his cheeks. “Fine. You can stay, I’m leaving.”
Dean rinsed the last plate and set it in the drying rack. He wiped his hands on his pants moved to the counters. There were still crumbs from breakfast, a spill of condensation where his cup had been. It took everything to ignore Sam. Even as the table went blurry. The kitchen started looking better already. Bobby would come back to a clean house. Maybe smile that small, tired smile. Maybe see that Dean could be useful without it being a transaction.
“You’re not listening to me,” Sam said, voice turning into something bitter and furious. He grabbed Dean’s arm, forcing him to turn and shoved Dean back into the counter. “I’m not doing this again.”
Dean met his brother’s eyes. Sam looked so young, even with that ancient anger burning there. Twelve years old and carrying the weight of the world on his skinny shoulders. Dean’s chest ached. He wanted to pull Sam into a hug, ruffle his hair, call him a nerd and make him laugh. Instead, he gently pried Sam’s fingers off his arm. “I’m tired, Sammy.”
Sam’s face crumpled. “You’re choosing him over me?”
“No,” Dean said firmly. “I’m coosing this for us. We can be safe here, please, Sammy.”
Sam stared at him for a long time, anger dimming into the same exhaustion that had sunk into Dean’s very bones. Tears of betrayal lingered on his lashes like crystal. Sam glared at Dean, teeth bared and turned on his heels. Dean stayed looking at where Sam had been, the grain of the wood. He heard the couch creak as Sam threw himself onto it. Dean heard him groan and knew his arms were crossed and his lips turned down in a pout.
Dean kept cleaning. He found a broom behind the pantry door and swept the kitchen pushing plumes of dust and crumbs into a smile pile he picked up with a damp rag. His back twinged as he straightened but he ignored it. Even in pain, he still felt better than he had in years and the work kept the nerves that choked his heart calm. Busy hands left a calm mind. Bobby said he didn’t need to earn anything. Dean wasnt trying to earn anything. He just wanted to make Bobby happy. It was the least he could do to repay the kindness.
In the living room, Sam huffed. Dean mostly ignored him avoiding the area until he’d cleaned everything else. He even cleaned the dust choked window sill so the reddish wood shone through. He crouched by the table stacking papers and car manuals into neat piles on the floor and putting old coffee cups and beer bottles next tot them to be cleaned. He wiped down the sticky table and returned to papers, takin the cups back before fluffing the pillows on the couch and two arm chairs, purposely ignoring Sam.
Sam huffed pointedly whenever Dean came close. When Dean grabbed a pillow, Sam grabbed it with his legs, holding it under him so Dean couldn’t take it. Dean rolled his eyes and left it. When Sam was in one of his mopey moods, it was best to ignore him.
Sam groaned and dramatically flopped back. The couch creaked and Sam tensed. After checking it wasn’t broken he curled up hugging the pillow to his chest. “I wanna go home,” he muttered, previous anger replaced with a numb depression.
Dean didn’t respond but his vision went blurry. He wanted a home more than anything. Not the gas station basement or the places between shadows. He’d moved to the hallway sweeping. He noticed scuff marks and scrubbed at them with a damp rag.
Sam curled even smaller. “I wanna go home.”
This time, Dean responded. “This is the best chance we’ll ever get.”
Dean didn’t know how long passed when Sam stood up, but he’d finished sweeping and scrubbing.
“I’m going for a walk,” Sam said, already heading for the door.
Dean paused his polishing. He was about to stop Sam but he looked small. Smaller than usual. Shoulders slumped and head hung low.
Dean nodded. “Bobby said not to leave the property. Stay where I can hear you.”
Something akin to betrayal and fear flashed across Sam’s face. “You’re really not coming?”
“I told you, I’m staying,” Dean said. “If you run, I’ll cover for you, but I’m not coming.”
Sam violently wiped at his eyes and stormed out, socked feet stomping on the wood. The heavy oak door slammed and Sam was gone.
Dean’s heart pounded. But Sam wasn’t running or trying to hotwire a car. He kicked at the gravel and the frame of a rusted out car before sitting on a tire, head in hands and shaking. Dean’s chest constricted. He wanted to help his brother but he was so tired and for the first time in God knows how long, he felt safe. Dean went back to cleaning.
It wasn’t too long before Sam came back in, face pink from head and a faint sheen of sweat on his face. He clicked the door shut behind him and flopped back onto the couch, arms crossed over his chest, eyes red and puffy. Despite sweating, he grabbed a throw blanket Dean had just folded and tucked it around his shoulders and feet forming a woolen ball. Dean moved onto cleaning the bookshelves, wiping dust and dead spiders from the wood.
Silence thick enough to cut stretched between them. Sam didn’t want to speak. Dean had already said what he wanted to say. Sam watched Dean from the couch, arms crossed and moping, but he didn’t speak. It was almost peaceful. The house felt more like a home now that it was clean. Dean had always liked things neat. He knew Dean only liked to clean because it kept his mind quiet.
Sam’s hands itched to take a car. To drive far away with his brother and start a new life. Far, far away. But despite it all, he trusted Dean. He’d kept him safe for twelve years. A few more days wouldn’t hurt. And Dean seemed so happy, so calm here. He would let Dean have that for now. He stayed older the blanket for a long time staring at the wall.
“You okay over there?” Dean asked, breaking the silence.
“No,” Sam mumbled from under the blanket.
“Wanna help? It’ll take your mind off it.”
Sam didn’t respond.
“You can help or mope.”
“I’ll mope,” Sam deadpanned.
Dean chuckled drily. “Fair enough.”
Having finished most of the house, Dean sat on the opposite side of the couch to Sam. Sam curled his legs in closer, giving Dean space. Dean smiled, toes inching closer and poking Sam’s calf.
No reaction.
Dean did it again. This time Sam grunted.
A third time.
“Dean!” Sam said exasperated.
Dean chuckled and flopped over, crushing Sam under him.
Sam gasped for air. “Dean,” he exhaled trying to breathe. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Dean let up, sitting up and poking at his brother’s ticklish knees. Sam let out an exasperated yell and sat up, tucking himself under Dean’s arm.
“I hate you,” Sam mumbled into Dean’s chest.
“Love you too, bud.”
“If he hurts you, I’m running. I’ll drag you if I have to.”
“Fair enough.”
They stayed together in silence until Sam spoke up. “I hope the dog is cuddly.”