TITLE: Say It This Often, and It Won't Always Come True
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
ARCHIVE: Ask, please.
RATING: R
POSTED: June 9, 2006
SUMMARY: Five promises, broken.
AUTHOR NOTES: With cover by Tripoli. Many thanks to Pouncer and Monkie for the beta work.
DISCLAIMER: Read
1. Ten years on
The third time Dean saw someone die, he was fourteen and too far away to do anything but watch.
He was that far away for a reason--
Stay in the car. Be ready when we come. You understand, Dean? Be ready.
--but if he'd been closer, he could've done something. This time he wasn't a kid; he was Dad's partner. He had a gun, he had the rounds, and he could have taken out that second spirit. Made it pause, anyway, with one shot, maybe two. But at almost fifty yards out, rock salt was worth spit, and he couldn't have run that far before they...
Dad could move faster, but not fast enough. So Dean was holding a shotgun in both hands and watching as Alan and Lisa ran. They ran straight out of the house, even though Dad shouted, "No! Stay inside!" Even though Dad had told them they'd be safe as long as they didn't come outside in the dark, not until Dad had salted and burned the bodies of the old ladies who had been stoned to death on these grounds. Bodies that hadn't been where Alan had said. Alan was new to the area, he'd gotten it wrong, and it was almost 1 a.m. when Dad and Dean, with Sam asleep in the back, had come back down the tiny old road to the Larsons' house and had heard the screaming.
Dean watched as Alan pulled Lisa behind him by the hand and ran straight out of the house after Dad shot two scattering rounds, maybe he'd thought Dad had cleared the way, and they ran right into the second spirit that just popped silently into existence like a shiny, cloudy net in front of them
(it must have been waiting, staying out of sight while Dad fired at its sister, which was screeching its pain loud enough for two. Spirits were smart, Dean knew that, but it was always another thing to see it in action)
and Dad shouted, "No!" but it didn't do any more good than before.
Dean watched Lisa, who was younger, smaller, there just wasn't as much of her, and she went white and cold before Dad flung out a huge handful of salt. And Dean watched Lisa drop when the spirit dissipated again.
Alan was stumbling, but moving fast with Dad's hand around his elbow. Dad carried Alan's daughter's body in his other arm. Sam had come awake at the first shot, and he was just staring while Dad came to a breathless stop at the back of the car and Alan collapsed into the rear wheel well, sobbing.
Without saying anything, Dean handed the shotgun back over the seat to Sam. Then he turned off the engine and yanked the keys free, and he kept his head down and focused on keeping his hands from shaking as he opened the trunk.
2. Thirteen years on
Mike Thompson became Sam's best friend about a month after they came to town. Dean didn't think much of him -- not as big a geek as Sam; not as flat-out dumb as most thirteen year olds -- but he was a good kid, and keeping track of the two of them for one sunny, cold afternoon was a sacrifice Dean figured he could make. Especially with the memory of Dad's crooked smile as he promised something big when he got back from South Dakota.
When the ice covering the pond creaked, Dean's triumphant grin dropped away and he skidded to a sloppy stop. Sam and Mike went shooting past him before he could grab them, still racing, flying out even further away from the shore.
Dean took a step out after them, his right foot slipped, and the creak created a thin crack.
"Sam!"
Sam laughed, both of them pushing off even quicker with those skinny legs. Dean barely heard the taunt, "You fall, you lose!"
Dean breathed through the panic. The crack grew, snaking out and branching as he inhaled, exhaled, deep and slow, and carefully slid away to the left. And then he was moving, faster, faster, rushing forward along the still-solid stretch in front of him and bellowing, "Other side! Now!"
Sam's stride faltered for only a second; he knew what that tone meant, even in broad daylight. But Mike started to turn. Dean saw his hands come up, and he was quickly close enough to see the confused frown morph into open-mouthed gaping.
Then Dean was on him.
He didn't stop, just snagged the kid's collar and dragged. Mike's feet were flailing, and Dean snapped out, "Stop helping," as a loud ssssskrack split the air behind them. Just ahead of them, Sam was doubled over on the bank, still on his feet but panting hard. Dean felt his footing go, tried to lunge the last distance, and the cold water felt like a knife, stabbing deep into his lungs as he fought to keep them moving. He couldn't feel, he couldn't tell if his feet were getting purchase on the bottom, damn it, he couldn't--
Something hit his head, knocked air into him. It hit him again and Dean grabbed at it, blinking when his fist came into his eyeline with a branch in it.
"Come on, Dean!"
That was Sam. Sam was shouting.
"Dean. Keep moving."
He did. Hanging onto that branch and following Sam's voice, Dean moved and kicked and crawled onto land, five fingers still locked in a heavy collar.
Shuddering in the air that was colder than the fucking water, Dean ignored Sam hanging onto his arm, and pulled and tugged until Mike wasn't face-down in the snow. Dean finally let go.
Hell, that was a deep gouge. Blood, only kind of seeping out, on the kid's face. And he was so still. God, please.
Then Sam was leaning over Mike. He had his coat off, started doing stiff-arm compressions, and Dean struggled out of his own coat, too many wet layers, he shouldn't be wearing--
Finally down to his t-shirt, he tried to stand, but his legs were done working and he couldn't get any further than his knees. Whatever. He was damn well going to stay upright.
"Sam." Dean couldn't even really hear himself, so he tried again. "Sam."
The compressions stopped, but only long enough for Sam to breathe three times into Mike. Then, "What?" Sam didn't even look over, just pressed, once, twice, again. Water leaked out one side of Mike's mouth, dribbled down into the snow, but there was no cough.
"I'll do...I'll do that," Dean forced out, it was so hard to, but he had to, because, "You go...call..."
Sam's head shot up after giving another breath. "Oh." He looked at Dean, his mouth open and stained with red, clouds coming out of him. "Yeah. I..."
While Sam ran, Dean stared down at the thin, totally still form next to him. He put out a hand and glared at it until the shaking went away, then he pressed and held his fingers to the joining of jaw and throat.
He counted to one hundred. Nothing.
Another hundred.
Stopped.
3. Nineteen years on
He'd been the one to say it this time, "You'll be safe," three small words, because Sam had made a choice and Dad was off in Colorado. And at 10:28 on the night of Friday, August 2, Dean did what tons of people did on the shit end of an awful day.
About an hour in, he was still sitting back watching the rest of the room, especially those two girls leaning shoulders together at the bar. They kept turning, peeking one at a time back into the corner where he'd settled with two beers on the table and his gun in the car. Blonde-in-tight-jeans was more obviously on the prowl, and she would be easier, but Dean looked them both straight in the eyes when they each turned again. The blonde looked at him, at the three guys sitting around the next table, at the one walking toward the bar. The brunette, in her dark and flirty skirt, was the one who lingered with more than general interest, who let him see the quick flick of tongue as she wet her lower lip.
Dean wanted to grin, to show her he appreciated the move, but he wasn't sure what would come out -- something ready and flirting, or something torn and aching.
He glanced down at his hands and there wasn't anything on them; no grassy dirt, no beer bottle condensation, no woman's dark blood and light hair and broken scraps of skin.
Dean reached out, drained the second beer, and let the bottle come back down hard on the table. He rolled his shoulders and stood just as the brunette's head came around again, and when she raised a challenging eyebrow, he finally moved, knowing that if she'd smiled, he would have been out the door.
Between his table and her side, Dean found something like his usual grin. It was obviously bright and cocky enough that Kate -- probably a K, didn't really matter -- had no problem leaving the bar on her own, and even less with sliding into the back seat once she saw the Impala. She met him more than halfway for the kiss, too, stretching out against the leather with her hands clenched in his hair. He cupped her jaw and kissed her hard, mouthed her nipples through her bra, licked slowly down her stomach and held her there with his tongue and a hand on that warm skin, drawing it all out, making her writhe when he pressed two, three fingers into her.
The noise Kate made when her legs tightened harder around his hips and she pulled him even deeper as she came was a high, long cry. Dean quickly smothered it with one hand, and his eyes snapped shut as she sucked his thumb into her mouth.
That cry wasn't the startled gasp Gwen had let out when the Black Dog had struck out of absolutely nowhere. And Gwen, the last of her very Welsh family, already frail, hadn't made any sound when she'd crumpled to the ground, or when Dean had lifted her and seen there was no reason to but cradled her head anyway, while he fired his last round into the carcass seeping thick blood into her garden.
No, those sounds weren't the same at all.
Dean stopped again on the way back to the motel, needing more than a shower. He put a twenty on the counter, and when the guy standing in front of the bottles of liquor asked, "What?" Dean said, "Anything hard."
4. Twenty-three years on
"There was no way to stop him," Sam said.
Dean was pretty sure that his glare should have made it clear how much he didn't want to talk about this again. Sam was either slow or stubborn today, though. Or maybe he needed to be out of the not-so-blue hills of Kentucky.
"It's just going to happen sometimes, like with Jake Devins," Sam said, like he had to explain the facts of life. "It was a conscious choice, Dean. Matt knew what he was doing when he ran out on that bridge."
Dean didn't bother looking at the giant annoyance masquerading as his brother in the passenger seat as he said, "Yeah."
"Well, right now, in case you didn't know, you? Are brooding."
Dean let out a short pfft at that. And he could feel it when Sam shrugged.
"You want me to call it 'grumpy'?"
"Oh for--" Dean hauled in a deep breath and gave up on hoping that Sam would let go. "Look, I'm not brooding, just don't ask me to be dancing, okay?"
They were both silent for the next half mile, which was good and bad, since it really was too much to hope for that Sam would ever stop thinking. Dean kept his eyes on the road and wondered if getting rid of Paul Rodgers was worth reaching over for the tapes between Sam's feet. He absently rubbed a hand through his hair. There wasn't any sawdust there, and all the splinters were out of his jacket, he hoped, and eventually he would stop feeling the echo of the concussion blast when that covered bridge went to tiny, tiny pieces all at once.
"I wouldn't ask that," Sam said quietly. "Just don't..."
Dean shot him a look when that thought died out. Sam was watching him. Great. "Don't what?" Dean asked, keeping it casual as he could.
Sam's mouth tightened and he shook his head. "Nothing." Clearing his throat, he turned to look out his window again. "So, next motel? Or straight on 'til morning?"
Nothing from Sam was exactly nothing as often as it was when he said it, Dean knew, but he really wasn't up for pushing. "Next bar has my vote," he said instead. "And gee, look who's behind the wheel..."
That got a soft laugh from Sam. "Think we've got enough karma stored up to find a bar next to a motel?"
Dean's mouth hitched up, but he squashed the smile with a firm nod. "Definitely."
5. Twenty-seven years and counting
Dean had no plans to ever stop saying, "You'll be safe."
He'd picked that up from Dad -- leaning over a crib, stepping out to the front, holding a hand in his. They were out here to keep people safe and saying so made a difference. It totally did.
Sam said it all the time, all earnest eyes and solemn face, willing people to believe it.
Dad said it like a fact, like that was just the way it was going to be.
Dean made it a promise.
So what if he'd learned to add on "if" at the end, or to start with "do this, and"? He'd learned those lessons gradually and learned them well, and they let him keep on promising. Because specifics could control suspicion -- say what you aren't with authority, and people are insecure enough that they really will buy anything -- but the best thing about being specific was it could help him hold to that promise.
He kept a count. It wasn't in his journal, it didn't need to be, not when the tally of every time the promise broke, whether or not he'd said it out loud, wasn't leaving his head. Hell, Dad kept one, too, Dean was sure of that. And Sam...sometimes Dean wondered; not about the existence of Sam's list, oh yeah, he had one all right, but about who went on it. Whatever. A guy had to live with his own count.
With Sam asleep next to him, Dean drove away from another town, another burned corpse, another changed life, and knew he wasn't ever going to stop.
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