"One More For the Road" (Apo-verse)

[brosedshield]

So I said to my brain: “Brain! What would we like to write today?” And then I gave it a list.

1. Deanna fic—lavinialavender and I have a comm—deewinchester —devoted to our interpretation of girl!Dean, and how societal pressures could shape “Deanna” to basically become “Dean.” We rely heavily on the fact that women die a lot in SPN, and Dean(na) would do ANYTHING to protect their little brother.

2. S5 fic—because S6 starts tomorrow, and I’m not sure I want those influences cluttering up what I think now.

3. ORIGINAL fic—because Mirai needs to give her brother some hurt/comfort, Kev has to deal with a dragon, and Haylan has to survive his mother one more day.

4. Apo-verse works-in-progress

So what do I end up doing?

I end up writing a completely new Apo-verse fic. Because (my brain promised me) “It will be short!”

Thousand+ words later, I think we have to have a talk about our differing definitions of short (and while I’m at it, maybe I should talk to someone about this habit I have of talking to myself).

Hope you enjoy. I think this is just a sign that the Apo-verse is alive and well and breeding plot bunnies in my skull

Title: One More for the Road
Disclaimer: If anyone owns anything in this relationship, Supernatural owns my heart. And won't give it back. And won't pay me for it. (i.e. Don't own, don't profit) Though the AU twist is mine. If you want to jump in this crazy place with me, please do! There's plenty of room, the water's fine, and I enjoy company.
Characters: Sam, John, Dean, deer!Impala
Warnings: This AU is a strange place, built on a joke and spiraling out of control. If you can't handle a post-Apocalyptic world with mutant African deer, and a gleeful disregard for the stodgy rules of logic, turn back now!
Rating: PG
Word count: 1525
Spoilers: None, pre-series
Summary: Just another town. Just another fight. Until it’s not.
Author notes #1: This AU (I call it the Apo-verse) started as a joke, but somehow it got out of hand. The Impala is currently an African deer and the world in general is post-Apocalyptic (nukes, biological weapons, the end of broadcast television). Other stories in this world, posted and in the works include: “Live by the Sword”, "Two Men and an Impala" (currently a WIP), and "Dean vs. the Sex Traders" (also currently a WIP). Honestly, I’ve always wanted to write a “Sam leaves for Standford” fic, but never really thought I had anything valid to add. I’m still not sure I have anything to add, but it’s the Apo-verse, so anything goes.
Author note #2: Again, lavinialavender has excellently beta’d this fic.

Another day in the life of the Winchesters. Just another hunt in a mostly abandoned town, just another abandoned apartment without heat.

And just another fight.

Sam knows the rhythm of their fights like he knows shotgun recoil and the sway of the Impala. They’re at the point tonight where John looks like he wants to hit his youngest son, hard—fists clenched, shoulders tight like a set spring—and Sam, for the first time that week, can’t feel the cold through the steady blood-beat of his own rage.

Sam snaps something else to John’s shouted argument and pushes his father that must closer to the swung fist. He has a fine sense for what will get under John’s skin, and sometimes he goes for the bone, whether or not what comes out of his mouth is true, in spite of how he respects the man—when he’s not treating him like a baby civilian, which rounds up to about three days in every month.

A punch will end things, no matter who snaps first. Dean will step in at the first sign of Sam getting a thrashing (or maybe, Sam thinks, maybe this time I’ll lay him out on the shitty carpet. Maybe he could respect me when his son can beat him down).

Dean knows they can’t stop—he’s watched this dance often enough—knows that stepping between them is like throwing his hand between acid and a knife. He just gets hurt, and everyone is sorry in the morning. So Dean gets out of their way and watches, hoping that tonight, like so many times before, they will burn each other out and the rest of the evening will pass in what has served the Winchesters for a comfortable familial silence since Sam slid into his teens.

But tonight Sam feels the moment that he pushes John too far, knows for sure when he sees the rage in the other man’s face crystallize and set. Sam braces himself for the blow and doesn’t think too hard about the satisfaction he feels. You broke first again, you bastard. I beat you again.

But John doesn’t pull back and let him have it—Dean, tense in his corner, expects that too. He stalks to the pile of packs in the corner, and for an uncertain second Sam think he’s going to beat him with a belt like he did a handful of times as a kid.

Instead it’s a piece of paper John has clenched in his fist.

“You claim to love this family,” John spits. “What part of this is giving a damn about me and Dean?”

The bottom drops out of Sam’s diaphragm, and the strength rushes out of him. He can’t breathe, and his hands hang at his sides like broken branches from an old tree. He knows that paper and every word written on it.

But all he says is “So you’re going through my stuff now?”

Dean is up and trying to look at the letter. John is staring. Sam can’t sense anything now because the argument is cold ashes, and his father’s face hasn’t changed.

“When were you going to tell us?” John asks. “Or weren’t you? Were you just going to slink out one day with your tail between your legs?”

More than once, Sam had thought about doing just that. It’s not like Dad hasn’t done the same thing to them more than once. But Dean always stopped him. Dean who stands next to John and looks so much like him. Dean who has always sided with Dad, even when stepping between them.

“What is it, Sammy?” Dean asks, cautiously, like it could be anything from a suicide note to a declaration of Sam’s undying love for My Little Ponies.

“An acceptance letter,” Sam says without looking at either of them. “For college. Standford,” he adds, even though he knows it doesn’t matter to either of them that he got in the best university that still exists in the continental United States. That he already has a job that will pay his way.

Dean’s face closes down, and John sneers. “Education,” he says. “What you need to know is what I tell you, and you’d learn that if you’d just do what I say. That’s what keeps this family alive, Sam, not a fucking education.”

When do I get to tell you what I want? Sam thinks, knowing the answer is ‘never.’ Do you know how many forwarding addresses I left behind your back? How many times I told you what I wanted, and you ignored me? How many states that letter had to follow us through before I got it in my hands?

Dean sounds like he got hit in the stomach. “Sammy…college?” He doesn’t try to twist the knife, but he does because Sam can hear the betrayal in his voice.

Dad has Dean, and Sam is beaten.

“Sir,” he says to his father. “I don’t need to do a goddamn thing you say.”

Sam walks up to John, pins his wrist in a pressure point and pulls the letter out of his hand when it loosens. He doesn’t really want it, not with his brother staring at him like that, but he can’t just leave it there, with them. It’s the life he wants but never really expects to have. He can see himself in Palo Alto, pouring over law books scavenged from burnt-out libraries, sleeping in the same bed for more than a few months and making friends, not just John’s hunting contacts—people he sees maybe once a year—but people who will be there for him. People he won’t have to lie to and leave.

He dreamed thousands of time about having a real life. But he can’t imagine himself saying goodbye.

Sam walks to the door. Retreat and live to fight another day. He needs air, he needs to be away from them right now, and he needs to put the dream back together, so he has something to stare at nights when both of them are gone and he’s just useless.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” John says.

The words rake Sam’s back and he winces, but doesn’t turn around. “Out,” Sam says.

“You walk out that door, that paper in your hand, don’t even try to come back.”

Now Sam turns. He meets John’s eyes. They’ve said vicious, cutting things to each other, but only half of them have been true.

This one is true.

It takes a long time for Sam to admit it, and the whole time John stares him down, like he knows his son will break, like he knows he’s the top dog in this little circus and it’s only a matter of time before Sam rolls over.

There are different ways to go missing, for the Winchesters. John can vanish for weeks on a hunt—or just for the hell of it—Dean can be drunk in a town for days, Sam has even run once or twice, but there’s a trick to it, and they all know it. You can leave, but you have to know that family will be waiting for you when you come back. Because there is no magic telephone—like he’s seen in Bobby’s VHS movies—no psychic bond, no instinct that will let them find each other if someone vanishes.

For the first time Sam realizes that John would leave him. John might regret it afterward, might come back to this little abandoned town looking for him, but if Sam walks out right now, John will try to leave.

Sam goes to the bed, and tries not to see how Dean relaxes, how his brother is relieved that the fight’s blown out again. Sorry, Dean. Not this time.

Sam grabs his pack—he hadn’t even pulled out his blanket before the argument started—and shoves the letter into one of the deeper flaps. He grabs the knife and shotgun that fit his hands the best and pulls on his jacket.

To his surprise, John speaks before he gets to the door. “Did you hear me, boy?”

He looks back. “I heard you, sir.”

When John says nothing else, Sam leaves, praying with every step that one of them will stop him, one of them will catch him before he’s gone, utterly gone.

The Impala snorts at him when he walks past, and he brushes its nose. It sneezes and tries to bite him.

“Love you too,” Sam says, and then he can’t breathe any more, can’t swallow, and his eyes are watering, dammit. Sometimes the everyday responses hurt the most.

The Impala stares, like it knows there’s not enough sarcasm, and he can feel its eyes on him all the way around the building. Right before he disappears, it makes a low cry he’s only heard once or twice in his life, something between a neigh and the grin of hooves on gravel.

Sam trudges down the road, cutting toward the biggest population center he can remember, hiding his trail automatically as he goes.

In the end, he didn’t need to say goodbye.