Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ We Didn't Start The Fire ❯ Epilogue ( Epilogue )

We didn't start the fire.

It was always burning since the world's been turning.

We didn't start the fire.

No, we didn't light it but we're trying to fight it.

 

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John Winchester

1958-2006

 

That was all the grave marker said.

 

It seemed unbelievable, almost a crime, but no one had seen fit to add anything, and Dean hadn't been able to pay for more than that. And it hadn't been possible to bury him in Lawrence, next to Mary. So, it was a tiny riot in a tiny Salvation cemetery, or nothing at all.

 

Sam leaned against the Impala—finally retrieved from the local mechanic and looking none the worse for wear—and watched his brother, standing in front of the grave. He hadn't so much as twitched in the last ten minutes, and Sam was beginning to wonder if they were ever going to get out of here—back to a motel room where he could just curl up in bed and sleep some more and forget all of this for a while.

 

But there was no way he was going to say any of this to Dean, because that would accomplish nothing except to push Dean into shoving away his own grief, the pain that—despite how hard it was—he nevertheless desperately needed to feel.

 

So instead, Sam stood by the car, and tried not to look at his father's grave, and gave his brother the time he needed.

 

It had been nearly twenty-four hours since the debacle with the demon, and Sam could barely wrap his mind around everything his brother had told him—in a flat, toneless, barely-held-together voice—during their cab ride. Of course, he'd been barely coherent at the time, lost in his own exhaustion, but still, the words had hit like blows.

 

Dean had half-carried him to their hotel room, and sat him down on the bed, and only then had Sam noticed his stiff, painful movements. But when he'd asked, Dean had brushed it off, and no amount of pressing would convince him to say anything other than “I'm fine.”

 

Sam had fallen asleep after that. He had no idea if Dean had gotten any rest, but by the time he woke up nearly twenty hours later, the Impala had been by some means returned, take-out had mysteriously appeared on the table, and Dean was sprawled out on his own bed, reading the family journal for the umpteenth time.

 

He hadn't said a word—just pointed to the table, and Sam got the message because, after all, it was impossible to misinterpret. But Dean's silence was unnerving—and continued to be so, all through breakfast/lunch/dinner—Sam had no idea what it actually was—and as Sam was dressing, and as Sam did everything else a person does when preparing to face the day.

 

Sam wanted, so badly, to just talk to his brother, to talk to the last person he had in the whole world, but something held him back, and he found himself instead being as quiet as he could be, all morning long.

 

In fact, Dean still hadn't said anything to him, beyond asking him if he was okay to go somewhere, and now here he was, and here the silence was, and it would seem that Dean still wasn't talking.

 

He wasn't angry though. Sam was sure of that.

 

He just wished he knew the real reason.

 

A sudden movement startled Sam, and he looked back on time to see Dean kneel down and reach to the ground. He dug his fingers into the turned earth that hadn't yet had time to grow over. Slowly, he tilted his palm and let the dirt slide out of it, and back to its home. Then, as if he had completed something that had to be done, he turned and strode back to the car without glancing back.

 

For a long time, the brothers lounged against the Impala in silence, both looking at the ground and the sky and not at each other.

 

Then Dean spoke, suddenly, and Sam nearly fell over.

 

“I've been thinking about how we could have done what we did.”

 

That sentence could have encompassed a myriad of things, but Sam had some idea of what he meant. “You come up with anything?”

 

Dean shrugged. “It's pretty simple, I guess. I've read that intuition is heightened during REM sleep—which both of us were stuck in for a week—and I guess since you already had the psychic thing, it sort of…spun? That must be how I shared your…dreams.”

 

“But Dean,” Sam protested, his common sense warring with his desire to just forget the whole thing had to whatever extent was humanly possible. “I can't read minds! And besides, how did we stay connected after we woke up?”

 

Dean was quiet for another moment, but before Sam could fear that he'd gone silent again, he continued, sounding thoughtful. “You're a tool, Sam. I don't know what for, but something has to be controlling your abilities if you can't.”

 

Sam wanted to ask where this incredibly flattering explanation was going, but he held his tongue.

 

“And I think whatever's in charge here decided that you needed me, and it made it possible for me to find you.”

 

“Are you talking something God-like?” Sam asked.

 

Dean shook his head. “No. Just…something.”

 

Sam thought about it for a moment, but then shook his head. “You're reaching, Dean,” he murmured, but he was uncertain, reluctant as he was to admit it.

 

“Yeah…maybe,” Dean agreed, sounding unconvinced.

 

They were quiet for a long time, and Sam found his mind going over everything he could remember of the last week again, and trying to figure out what it was that made him feel so…off.

 

“`To the last of this and anything…you can choose.'”

 

He wasn't sure where the words came from, and in fact he didn't realize he'd said them until he noticed Dean staring at him, puzzled, and possibly worrying about his sanity again.

 

“It's…from a book Jess used to read obsessively. She was forever quoting those books, and that one just…stuck in my head. I completely forgot about it until just now…”

 

Sam paused, trying to figure out what he was talking about, and then, without warning, words began tumbling uncontrollably from his mouth.

 

“But I didn't choose this time. I had the chance to, but then…you came along.”

 

Dean opened his mouth, looking furious, but Sam went on—not out of any desire to ignore his brother, but because he couldn't seem to stop talking.

 

“I was about to go with him, you know. I was about to let him take care of everything. But you didn't let me.”

 

“Sammy, what are you—?”

 

“You convinced me to make the choice to come back with you. The right choice, I guess is what we're calling it. You made it so I could get back to my life, back to the good side. You stopped me from completely losing my mind.”

 

Sam's voice dropped then, and his next words were soft, so soft that he knew Dean barely heard him.

 

“And I don't know if I want to thank you for that…or hate you.”

 

Dean didn't say anything to that. He seemed…stunned.

 

“But I think…someday…I'll thank you.”

 

Dean stared straight ahead and didn't reply. But something flickered across his face—something sad and lonely and beautiful—before he finally said something. “You know it's not over.”

 

Sam sighed heavily. “Yeah. I know.”

 

“But…for now, I guess…it could be.”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“Well…this demon that killed Mom is dead. Or it seems to be, anyway. And even if it isn't, you've pretty much kicked its ass bad enough that it won't turn up again any time soon. So…I guess, if you want to go back to Stanford…now's the time for it.”

 

For a long time, Sam was too surprised to say a word. He hadn't even thought about Stanford since before the accident.

 

Dean waited for a reply, but finally he seemed to decide that he wasn't going to get one.

 

“So…I guess we should start the drive there in the morning. I mean, it's a long drive, you know. And I don't want to spend any longer than I have to chaperoning you around. All the jobs haven't just stopped existing and I want to get back to hunting as soon as I can, so…”

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean stopped talking as Sam's soft voice cut him off.

 

“Could we just…drive…for a while?”

 

Dean finally turned to face him, and after a moment of looking shocked, he smiled—just a little, but it was a smile nonetheless.

 

“Yeah. We could do that.”

 

So, with one last look back at their father's grave, Sam and Dean Winchester—who would be the last of their line, but that was many years yet in the coming—climbed into the Impala, and left Salvation, never to return to that sad place.

 

They had no agenda, no route, and no idea of where they were going.

 

They just…drove.

 

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We didn't start the fire.

It was always burning since the world's been turning.

We didn't start the fire.

But when we are gone,

It will still burn on, and on, and on, and on…

 

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AN: Well, that's it. It's done. The shortest multi-chapter fic I've ever written—and also one of the most difficult to finish. Please, please, PLEASE give me the feedback my little heart craves!!!

 

And thanks, thanks, THANKS for all of you who did review!!!

 

Next story coming…as soon as I can finish the first chapter!