Take Care of My Baby

1964
8 years later

Dean drove aimlessly for miles, until his truck ran out of gas and he ran out of money to fill his tank. He had decided at some point on his journey that when he reached that point, he would get out and find himself a job, because by then, he would be far enough away from his hometown that no one would be able to find him.

As it turned out, he ended up in Michigan and found a job in a Ford plant assembly line. It was monotonous work, but the constant rhythm drilled any and all thoughts out of his mind as he bolted together pieces of an engine. He got decent pay, and he worked long hours. It was, for all intents and purposes, good enough.

He still couldn't give up working on cars, however, and he worked part time in an auto shop in the weekend. Rufus, his boss, was a snarky black man who reminded Dean a lot of Bobby.

All the money he made was split 25/75. The 25% was saved for his own needs: the apartment he bought in Detroit, gas money, food, alcohol. The other 75 was split into thirds and sent without a return address to the Novak family, Bobby, and Sam. He hoped that they understood how sorry he was each month when they opened an envelope to find a stack of bills there as compensation.

But aside from that, the rest of his connections with his hometown were cut. Dean had fallen off the face of the earth as far as they were concerned, and that was just the way he wanted it. He hoped that the town was able to move on, that people would forget about him and that the anger felt by those that he abandoned would fade with time.

His leg healed nicely, and Dean cut the cast off himself at the auto shop.

Eight whole years pass by in this fashion.

Dean tried to move on from Cas, but he couldn't. For the first two years, he spent his free time in bars, drinking, smoking, and sleeping with random women. He tried something longer with a woman named Carmen, but it just didn't work out. No one meant as much to him as Cas did, and it felt wrong, like he was betraying the spirit of the man he had killed.

So, he spent his time in bars smoking and drinking alcohol like it was the only thing keeping him alive, and he only picked up women when he was feeling truly desperate.

It was his favorite bar that, one day, the past caught up with him.

Dean was staring down at the whiskey in his glass, half-heartedly listening to the newest hit, Last Kiss, and hating himself, when he hears a familiar voice.

"Hey, brother."

His head flew up in surprise, and next to him sat Benny Lafitte in the flesh, looking just a little bit worse for wear.

"Goddamn. Never thought I'd see you here," he huffed, downing the last of his alcohol. It was the best reaction he could muster up at the time.

"Yeah, well. Life has a way 'a doin' that to ya." Benny flagged down the bartender and ordered something for himself.

"So what the hell are you doin' up here in Michigan?"

"Lookin' for work. Figured goin' north was my best bet."

"Huh." Dean nodded to himself, watching the bartender refill his glass.

"Mm."

"So what's it been like out there?" Dean couldn't help himself. He knew that the question could only provide him with pain and answers he didn't want, but curiosity got the best of him.

"What, out in Cali?" Benny asked, his brow furrowed. "Man, I left that place same night as you."

It was Dean's turn to furrow his brow. "Why?"

"Whole reason I was out there was the racin'. Seemed kinda pointless stickin' 'round."

Dean nodded as he absorbed the information. "So where'd you go?"

"Ah, I went out to Louisiana for a while. Back home. Got in some trouble, did some time. Came here lookin' for work." Benny swirled his drink. "Nothin' too excitin'."

"What'd you get busted for?"

"Me an' some buddies a' mine were stealin' some cars and goin' 'round sellin' 'em."

They both fell silent for a while, neither of them really sure of what the wanted to say. It had been four years since they'd seen each other last. There were things to catch up on, stories to tell, but neither of them could find the words to say.

"Look," Benny drawled, slow and careful, as he looked at Dean. "I'm in some real deep shit, brother. I ain't lookin' for a handout, but I got no place to stay, and I got nowhere to work."

Dean smirked. "You want my help."

"I'll help pay rent while I find somewhere else to stay. It'd only be temporary."

The Winchester pursed his lips, downed his drink, shrugged, and said, "Why the hell not?"

Benny moved in that same night, and the next day, he got a job at the same factory as Dean. It was an odd sort of friendship that they shared, but Dean welcomed the human contact that he had been deprived of for so long. He was content to come home each night, eat a meal with someone, and alternate sleeping on the couch or the bed.

He learned that Benny had figured out that he was not as straight as he let on, and that Benny didn't care.

And, after a few months, things started to happen between them. It was a spur of the moment decision that had Dean panting naked against the living room wall with lips swollen from hard kisses and bruises on his body from tight grips, but it continued whenever one of the men was frustrated or angry or upset or even simply in need of some form of physical contact.

They didn't talk about it the next morning, even when they woke up naked in bed together. It never progressed into emotional territory, because Dean wasn't ready for something like that again, and because Benny couldn't admit to himself that he was sleeping with a man.

And they didn't talk about Cas.

Benny tried, though.

It was a lazy fall afternoon that found Dean sitting on the couch with his feet up, smoking and cleaning one of the guns that he had bought when he moved in as Benny lazed on the floor watching TV.

"So, what happened that night?" the man asked. "I know it's all hush-hush, but I've been curious since it all went down."

"What happened what night?" Dean asked absently. He thought that Benny meant one of the nights they spent together.

"The night Cas-"

"Don't," Dean cut in. He tore his eyes from his weapon to glare at the other man.

Benny held his hands up in an act of surrender. "I meant no offense by it, brother. Just curious."

"Yeah, well. Don't be."

"Look, Dean." Benny turned himself to give Dean a meaningful look. "I know it was a rough time, but ya can't bottle that shit up. Ya been runnin' from it for years."

Dean held his glare. "If you ever mention Cas to me again, I will break your nose."

"Dean."

"I'm not kidding."

Hurt was spelled across Dean's features, and though Benny wanted to protest, he couldn't find it in himself to do so.

He never brought it up again.

Dean and Benny spent two and a half years living together when Benny moved out. He had met a nice girl, he said, and he wanted to get serious with her. He thanked Dean for helping him through his rough time, gave the man some money to cover his half of the rent for the rest of the month, and walked out the door with the few bags of things he owned.

Dean wanted to be broken up by it, but he couldn't find it in himself. It had been almost six years since the incident with Cas, and yet it still numbed him to any sort of feelings that weren't guilt, self-loathing, or just simple pain.

He still woke up some nights, sweating, as he relived the night. He would find a pillow in his arms, clutching tight to it like it was Cas and he was trying to staunch the bleeding.

He still opened his eyes some mornings expecting to find Cas waiting for him, already awake.

He still stopped sometimes in the middle of whatever it was that he was doing as a wave of nostalgia washed over him. Sometimes it was the fact that he was washing Cas's favorite mug, sometimes it was a song he heard that took him back to a night of cruising with the younger man.

He still couldn't listen to You Belong to Me.

He still kept one of Cas's sweaters, even though the smell of the man had long since faded, exchanged instead for that of Dean's new home.

It had been six years, but Dean couldn't get over Cas.

Benny moved back to Louisiana a few months later.

__________

It's a quiet day in October. Dean has the day off, since Rufus has the shop closed due to his wife's medical issues, and he doesn't quite know what to do with himself other than plop down in front of the TV and scan through the available channels when there's a knock on the door.

He sighs and throws his head back against the back of his couch. The knock comes again, so he grumbles, "I'm coming! Jesus."

He hauls himself up from the couch and throws the door of his apartment open.

What he sees takes his breath away and makes his jaw fall open. He can't believe his eyes, and yet, here he is.

Sam.

"Dean," the man breathes, taking the step forward to bring his older brother in for a hug.

They hold each other tight for what feels like a long time, clutching onto one another's t-shirts just to make sure that what they're seeing is real. It seems improbable; Dean has done a damn good job covering his tracks for all this time, and it seems odd that he would slip up now.

When they break apart, they're both grinning. "Damn, it's good to see you, Sammy," Dean says. Then, he seems to remember common courtesy, so he steps back and opens the door. "Come on in. You want a beer or anything?"

"Uh, sure," Sam agrees as he comes inside. Dean watches as he does so, mainly because it's just completely insane that his little brother is here in his apartment, looking around at the place he's called home for the past eight years.

Dean walks into the kitchen with Sam trailing behind slowly. He gets two beers out of the fridge and hands one to the man who's still looking around the room as he takes in the sights.

Sam looks... different. It's not a bad thing, but it's a little disorienting. Dean doesn't think that his brother has grown taller, but he's certainly bulked up, and his hair has grown so long that it brushes against the collar of his denim jacket. He looks a lot older. He's not the kid that Dean left behind any more. He's a man now.

The younger man nods his thanks, swings his backpack to the ground, and takes a seat in one of the chairs in the kitchen. Dean sits across the table from him, and they crack open their beers. Neither of them know where to start.

So, Dean chuckles sheepishly and scratches the back of his neck. "I guess I shoulda called, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam huffs in laughter. "Woulda been nice. I take it it was you who sent all that money, though."

"Um, yeah. I felt bad 'bout just ditchin' town. I wanted to make sure you guys got somethin', too."

Sam nods and takes a swig of his drink. Even after being apart for eight years, Sam still knows when to breach a subject and when to leave it alone.

"So you got a job?" he asks. Dean nods, so he continues. "Where at?"

"There's a Ford factory down the street. I help put together engines," Dean shrugs. "And I bring in a little money on the side at an auto shop."

"Pay good?"

"Good enough." The older man pauses. "What about you? You graduate and get your crazy law degree yet?"

Sam laughs. "Yeah, I just finished law school last year, and I got a job at a firm down in LA."

"Woah. Nice," his brother agrees with a grin. "What about you and Jess?"

Here, the younger man hesitates. "Yeah. Yeah, we got married the year after you left."

"Oh. Well, congratulations."

"Thanks." Sam gives one of his fleeting smiles and looks down at the table. "Woulda been nice to have you there."

Dean's tone softens right along with his heart. He grew up raising Sam, and one of his biggest regrets is not getting to see the man move forward with his life. "Yeah, I know."

Sam clears his throat and nods.

"So, you got kids? Start up a family yet?" Dean asks teasingly.

"Yeah. Yeah, we do," Sam grins. "We had a girl and a boy. Here, hold on."

The younger man digs around in his pockets and pulls out a wallet. When he opens it, he pulls out a picture, and he places it on the table so that Dean can see.

It's recent, and it depicts a girl no more than four who already has a head of blond curls just like Jess. The little girl is holding a massive baby with a goofy grin in her lap.

"That's Mary," Sam says as he points to the girl. "She's three and three quarters." In response to Dean's questioning look, he adds, "She likes to remind me."

"Oh," Dean nods understandingly, even though he hasn't been around a kid in years. "What about the boy?"

"That's Bobby. He's nine months."

Dean chuckles. "Bet Bobby got a kick outta that one."

"Actually, uh..." the younger Winchester clears his throat and retracts his picture. "Bobby's dead."

It feels like the wind has been punched out of Dean.

"Dead?" he echoes in a whisper. "What, uh, what happened?"

"Liver cancer."

"Damn," Dean mutters, running a hand over the eyes that are already prickling with tears. "Always knew the old bastard was gonna drink himself to death."

Sam gives the man a moment to regain himself, offering a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Then, he starts rifling through his little stack of photos.

"Here, I have one of me and Jess at the wedding, just a second."

The photo that he lays out next is older than the first one, but it's still in good condition, like it was handled with only the most careful of touches. It depicts Sam and Jess standing together, Sam behind Jess with his arms wrapped around her. He's got on a tux, and his hair is tamed, but Jess... she looks heavenly in her flowing, white dress. Her golden hair is half pulled back in soft curls. Dean wishes he could have seen it in real life.

"Damn," he comments. His voice is a little choked, so he doesn't add much more.

Sam smiles and puts the pictures back into his wallet. "Um... so, did you find anyone else?"

Dean hesitates, rolling the remainder of his beer around in its bottle and rubbing his face. "No," he shakes his head, "nothing long term."

"Oh." Sam pauses. Again, he recognizes that this is a touchy subject, so instead, he says, "You should come down and visit us sometime. After Bobby died, we moved just outside of LA, and uh..." Sam pauses, staring down at the leather he holds in his hands. "We've got a room ready for you if you wanna come down."

Even though the tears haven't quite left his eyes, Dean still grins like it's the only thing he knows how to do and says, "God, Sammy, that would be great."

"I miss you, Dean - Jess misses you. And if I have to hear one more question from Mary about what her mysterious uncle is like..." He trails off and shakes his head endearingly.

"Yeah, no, I'd love to. I'd be freakin' delighted," Dean agrees vehemently. Now that Sam is here, things seem a lot easier. His worst fear hasn't come true: he hasn't alienated his family so completely that they don't want anything to do with him.

"I'd offer to come up here, but... not much room for a family of four," Sam shrugs as he looks around. "But, I gotta say, it doesn't even really look like you live here, man. Get some paintings on the walls or somethin'."

"I use it for sleep, Sam. Most of the time I'm workin'," Dean counters, taking another swig from his beer. His brow furrows as he comes across a new thought, and he puts the bottle down immediately. "How'd you find me anyway? I thought I was bein' pretty good about coverin' my tracks."

"It's kind of a weird story, actually," Sam says with a half-smile. "Jess wanted to take a trip down to New Orleans last month, and, of all people, we ran into Benny."

Dean's heart stutters at the name; his first thought is just how much Benny told Sam.

"He let it slip that he had spent some time up here working with you. And then it was just a matter of tracking down your address." Sam shrugs. "You're my big brother, Dean. I saw the chance to see you, and I took it."

Dean nods and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry I didn't call you or anything, Sam. It was... it was just hard. I didn't know if you hated me for what I did, or for leaving. I just... couldn't face it."

"Yeah, no, I completely get it," Sam says emphatically. "I almost didn't come, because I didn't want to bother you, but I figured eight years was kind of enough time to get over any hard feelings."

"Yeah."

A moment of tense silence passes before Sam, his voice lowered, asks the million dollar question, "So... why, exactly, did you leave?"

"I couldn't deal with it, Sammy. I couldn't handle the way people would see me afterward, with that... that look in their eyes. I fucked up big time on so many levels, Sammy." Dean's voice has dropped to a whisper by now, and a tear has been freed from its prison. "It was too big for me to handle. I got home that night, and... I laid down in our bed, and I just..." He makes a grabbing motion at the sky. "I could smell him there, Sam. I couldn't face anyone after what I did to him."

Sam nods in understanding, his expression one of pain as well. He wants to help his brother, but words simply cannot undo something that has festered for eight years.

"You should have called, Dean," Sam says softly. "Or at least given us a return address."

"I know, but... I thought if anyone knew where I was, someone'd come for me, and all that shit would just get dredged up again." Dean pauses for breath, because it feels like his lungs are constricting by just talking about the matter again.

"Well... why - why would someone come for you, Dean? We were all just concerned. We wanted to make sure you were okay, and, and... to help you. It wasn't something you had to deal with alone," his younger brother says earnestly. It can't help much now, but he just wants to make sure that Dean knows he was loved, even when he was away.

"You were there, Sammy," Dean whispers with eight years of torment shining through his voice. "You saw what happened."

"Well, yeah, but-"

"I freaking killed him, Sammy. Tell me how you could have helped me with that?"

A conflict of emotions plays over Sam's face. First, there's realization, and it's followed by a short, incredulous huff of breath that's paired with a half- smile. "You don't know," he says softly, his tone one of utter disbelief.

Dean's brow furrows, and he looks at his brother like he's crazy. "Don't know what?" he demands.

And then, Sam lets out a short laugh.

"Dean," he begins, "Cas isn't dead."