hoodie_time | Always Thought That I'd See You Again (Part 3) Dean and Sam [PG-13] (Reply)

Title: Always Thought That I'd See You Again (Part 3)

Summary: Sam is at Stanford when he gets the call that he's been dreading his entire life. Dean is dead... or is he? Pre-series.
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1900 (for this chapter)
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Bobby (this chapter) Gen
Warnings: Language, angst
Genre: Hurt/Comfort

A/N: I suck. No, seriously, I suck. And I am a very slow writer! So I apologize that it took me so long to update and I apologize that I said this story would be three parts and it's clearly going to be quite a bit longer!

Chapter 1 http://gluisa88.livejournal.com/2658.html
Chapter 2 http://gluisa88.livejournal.com/3956.html#cutid1

Story So Far: Sam gets news that Dean is dead. Flies out to Illinois to identify the body that was found. In flashbacks, we see that Dean was just wrapping up a salt and burn when he runs into an old friend at a cafe. After an awkward conversation, he takes his leave, and while walking back to the Impala, he collapses.

"If all you expect out of life is shit then you're never disappointed."

That had been Dean's philosophy, the words of wisdom he'd offer Sam whenever he grew tired of listening to Sam bitch about how much life sucked.

Sam had always refused to believe that. Had wanted to believe that life was what you made of it. Unfortunately, he had made the mistake of repeating this firmly held belief to Dean. "Where did you get that?" Dean had mocked, "You sound like a freakin' motivational poster. How's this for you? Life sucks and then you die."

"You're a sad man, Dean. Real sad."

...

It hurt. It hurt so damn much.

It didn't feel real. It didn't feel right. Dean was always getting hurt and he was always fine. Dean wouldn't leave him like this because Dean never had. It was the one constant in Sam's life. The one thing he could always count on.

The worst part- it wasn't even a monster that had got his brother- it was a bullet. One damn bullet.

Sam remembers the time when an angry spirit had tried to drown Dean. When the doctors couldn't get Dean's heart to start beating. When they were this close to giving up and declaring Dean dead.

Dean had pulled through.

And the time when Dean had lain in the back seat of the car, bleeding out. Sam sobbing, trying to apply pressure to the wounds while Dad drove the car to the ER, "Just shut up Sam, just shut the hell UP!"

He put his head in his hands and tried not to hyperventilate.

The ticking of the clock and his ragged breathing stood in stark contrast to the silence of the room.

He blinked. Stared down at the corner of the bedspread that he had been twisting in his hands. His mouth was dry and his chest hurt.

He can't do this.

...

Sam didn't know what he had expected.

Why did he think that this time, things would be different? Why did he always expect so much out of Dad? ("If all you expect out of Dad is shit then you're never disappointed." Now those were words Sam could get behind. Hell, make a t-shirt of it.)

They say stupid is repeating the same mistake and expecting different results.

Like calling Dad's phone twenty-seven times in the course of two hours and still feeling anger, disappointment in the pit of his stomach each time he reached voicemail.

Sam just dialed again. Cursed his father, called his grandmother bad names when no one answered.

A small, petulant part of him wondered if dad would be picking up if it was Dean's name on the caller ID. Sam would have tried that- calling with Dean's phone- but the police were holding it as evidence. Shit.

Speaking of police, several officers had called saying they wanted to talk to Sam as part of their investigation into his brother's death. Wanted him to come into the station as soon as possible- or if more convenient, they offered to send out a couple detectives to speak with him.

Whatever. He just wanted to be left alone. It's not like he knew anything anyway.

...

He sat on the edge of Dean's bed, in a motel room that smelled of cigarette smoke and mold and his childhood.

And he wondered what happened now.

His roommate had called, wondered where he was, who he was with and why the hell did he miss joining him and his friends for Frisbee golf that afternoon?

"I'm in Illinois. My brother died." Sam had said. It was all he could manage without completely breaking down.

There had been an uncomfortable pause, "I didn't know you had a brother, man." Dealing with grieving people is tough and Damon's people skills had always been lacking.

Sam swallowed thickly and tried to figure out how to respond to that.

"So when you comin' back?" Damon asked.

Sam opened his mouth to speak- closed it when he realized he didn't have an answer for that either. "Look Damon, I gotta go. I'm waiting for a call from my Dad."

...

No. Absolutely not.

He refused to entertain such fears. He was just on edge, still emotionally raw from Dean's death.

Dad was on a hunting trip- perhaps he had his phone turned off, perhaps he was away from cell reception. No worries. No reason at all to worry.

Perhaps he had received Sam's messages- maybe he just didn't want to talk to him. Not like that had never happened before. After all, Sam was pretty sure that "If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back" extended to phone calls.

He tried to work up some anger about this- that was easier to deal with than fear. Nevertheless, the knot in his chest didn't loosen and the anger couldn't steady the trembling of his hands.

It had been over a year since Sam had last seen his father. Even longer since he had felt any need to see his father.

Right now was the first time for longer than he could remember. His chest was tight and his throat ached with the intense longing to just feel his dad's strong arms around him. To go back to the days when he was small enough that his dad's entire body would wrap around his and he'd feel safe and warm and protected.

Because he can't do this. Not alone.

...

Jet lag, Dramamine, and grief finally caught up with him.

It was a restless sleep, he dreamed that Dean showed up at Stanford, in the middle of one of Sam's lectures, to let him know that he had died. Asked Sam what he intended to do about it. Not in so many words, but that's what it amounted to.

"Well, I'm in the middle of finals right now." Sam had said. "It's not that I don't care..." he added- didn't want Dean getting the wrong impression or anything.

"Winchester." The professor said, focusing his eye on Sam (the other eye was glass), "What's all the whispering? Something you want to share with the rest of us?"

"Come on," Dean nudged, "Let's take this outta here."

"If you walk out the door," The professor warned, "Don't you ever come back."

Sam turned to Dean but Dean was gone.

...

The persistent pounding on the motel room door eventually roused Sam from his sleep.

For a moment he thought he was back at Stanford, "Uuugh." He groaned, "Don't tell me you locked yourself out again." He muttered., his bones aching as he rolled to a sitting position. It wouldn't be the first time Damon had locked himself out of their dorm room. Well, actually, Sam who had locked him out but it was Damon who had forgotten his keys.

His breath caught in his throat as he blinked against the light of the bedside lamp which he hadn't switched off before falling asleep.

Shit. Not Stanford. Not Damon.

He glanced at the clock. Who the hell would be pounding on the door at 4:30 in the morning?

Someone for Dean since no one knew Sam was here.

He didn't want to be dealing with this. He reached underneath the pillow, found the knife that he knew would be there.

Armed and satisfied that he would be able to defend himself against anything that might be lying in wait for him, he put his ear up against the door, "Who is it?"

"Dean, open up! It's Bobby!"

His hands trembled as he clumsily attempted to unlock the bolts, threw open the door and nearly knocked his uncle over as he pulled him into a desperate hug.

"Damn it, Sam." Bobby said, his voice muffled in Sam's hair, "What are you doing here?"

Sam bit back a sob, "Good to see you too Bobby." He pulled back, taking in his uncle, "Were you working on a hunt with Dean?" And as he asked it, he knew it wasn't so. Sam wouldn't have been called if Dean had had help on the case.

Bobby would've identified the body and notified Sam of his brother's death. Bobby wouldn't be standing at the door wondering why Sam was in town.

"I got a call from your brother." He said, pushing past Sam and entering the room, "I got here fast as I could... which was about three hours ago. Been driving around tryin' to figure out which motel your brother was staying at. Called around, there were nearly half a dozen different motels that I thought he might be at."

"Where's your brother, Sam?"

Sam didn't even try to hide the tears, "Dean's dead, Bobby."

...

Bobby brought whiskey which he shared with Sam. Poured it into tiny little Dixie cups.

Sam was enormously grateful that Bobby had brought his own booze. Sam had found a flask of whiskey in Dean's duffel earlier, when he was going through Dean's things, and tempting as it was, Sam couldn't bring himself to drink it.

It felt wrong even though Sam couldn't really explain why.

Bobby had been reluctant to believe the news. "Are you sure, Sam?" "You saw the body?" "What about his scars? The one across his stomach? Was it there?" and so on and so forth.

"We ain't gettin' drunk." Bobby said, pouring him and Sam one last shot before tucking the bottle back into his bag, "Just somethin' to take the edge off."

Sam nodded miserably, throwing back the drink. He crushed the paper cup in his fist, tossed it across the room into the waste basket.

"We've got work to do," Bobby said, "and we can't be shit-faced if we intend to find the monster who did this to your brother."

"It was a bullet, Bobby. It was human."

"Not all monsters are supernatural, kid."

Sam nodded. Was silent for several moments. "Tell me about this call you got from Dean." He asked softly, tracing with his finger the life lines on the palm of his hand.

Bobby grunted, "Barely coherent. Knew somethin' was wrong immediately. Couldn't make out much other than that he'd gotten himself into some deep shit."

Sam remembered that Dean had tried to call him as well. He hated himself for not having picked up the phone- would things have been different if he had? "How did you know he was here?"

"In Chicago? Knew he was on a hunt here. Your dad wanted your brother outta the way for a bit. Asked me if I could find him an easy hunt... so I did."

Sam swallowed back the blame that he wanted to place on his uncle. Blame for sending Dean here in the first place. Wanted to blame Dad as well, for letting Dean out of his sight.

"So." Sam began, "Dean called you for help?

Bobby nodded.

"That means he knew something was after him."

TBC