To Live on One's Own Terms

Summary: The curse is broken. Maybe Sam is too. (Sequel to For Your Own Good)

A/N: Once again, I'm sorry for the lateness. The editing took longer than I thought it would but I'm finally done. Here's the final part.

Chapter Five

Bobby calls early the next morning. Dean answers the phone quickly while still half asleep – Sam is sacked out beside him with his face buried in his pillow and Dean doesn't want him disturbed – and has a hushed conversation that feels more like a dream than reality, until some time later when a knock on the motel door rouses him again.

Sam jerks awake. He jolts upright in a panic, eyes wide and wild. One of his hands reaches out for Dean, twisting in his t-shirt. Dean covers it with his own and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“Relax.” Gently, Dean untangles Sam's fingers. “It'll be Bobby.”

He makes sure that Sam has started breathing again, then rolls out of bed and pads over to the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Who izzit?” he calls, just in case, and grins back at Sam when he gets a brusque “Who d'ya think it is; the tooth fairy?” in response. Sam gives him a shaky smile in return.

It is, of course, Bobby, with coffee and a bag of bagels.

“Oh hell yeah,” Dean crows appreciatively.

Bobby rolls his eyes, handing over the bag and one of the cups. “You're welcome.” He steps over the salt line and into the motel room.

“Mmm.” Dean drinks deeply, nudging the door shut with his elbow. “Thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby hands a cup to Sam and looks him up and down, assessing him. Dean watches Bobby, looking for any hint of concern, but the older hunter seems satisfied by what he sees. “Hey, kid. You're looking better.”

Sam's head bobs in a nod. He runs a self-conscious hand over his hair. “I feel better,” he confirms.

“Good.” Bobby nods approvingly. He pulls out a rickety chair from the tiny kitchen table, where Dean has planted himself to begin working through a bagel, and sits down. “Any after-effects?”

Sam hesitates. Guiltily, he glances down at his hands, wrapped around the steaming cup, and his face flushes with embarrassment. His knuckles are red and raw from his meltdown in the rain. “Um. I don't know.”

Belatedly, Dean hides his arms under the table so Bobby won't see the bruises in the shape of Sam's fists but the gesture doesn't go unnoticed. Bobby's eyes narrow. So do Dean's, warning him not to comment. Sam feels bad enough as it is. He spent a lot of last night trying to apologize, no matter how many times Dean told him that it was okay. Somehow Dean's assurances had only seemed to make Sam feel worse.

Thankfully, Bobby doesn't mention the bruises or Sam's swollen knuckles. “It can take a while,” he says instead, “getting back to normal, after a curse that strong. It makes sense if you're feeling off-balance. Hell, I'd be surprised if you weren't. Try not to worry too much. It'll get better.”

Sam makes an effort to smile that doesn't get further than a twitch of his lips. With a sigh, he drops the attempt. “Where did Dad go?” he asks.

Bobby looks as though he's just been asked the whereabouts of something slimy and putrid. His face scrunches and his lips purse together. He folds his arms across his chest. “He was headed west when I left him. Found himself a ghoul to hunt out that way.”

Sam nods, unsurprised. “I figured,” he says, “that he'd find a hunt.” For a moment, he's silent, scratching his thumbnail slowly over the surface of the coffee cup, before he takes a breath and asks, hopefully, “Did he say anything? Before he left?”

Bobby winces. His eyes slide over to Dean and they exchange helpless grimaces. Dean already knows the answer.

John Winchester hasn't apologized for a single thing in his life. Why would he start now?

Bobby shakes his head. “Sorry, kid.”

Sam wilts. He doesn't seem surprised by Bobby's answer but he looks crushed by it anyway. His shoulders slump and his eyes drop to the bedsheets and Dean wonders if they've just lost him for the rest of the conversation. He looks about ready to retreat into Sammy-statue land.

“Forget him,” Dean spits, a little desperately. “We're better off without him.”

“Damn right you are,” Bobby agrees.

Sam's nod is small and absently automatic. He stares down at the coffee cup he's holding, breathing out a sigh. “I thought, maybe, after he had some time to think...”

Sam always has been heartbreakingly good at looking for the best in people.

“Yeah, well, thinking requires a brain and I'm not so sure your old man's got one of those,” Bobby says, with comfortingly sincerity, which makes Sam smile, just a bit.

Dean uses the moment of distraction to toss the bagel bag at his brother. “Have some breakfast,” he suggests. And then worries that it sounds more like an order. “If you want to.” Sam really does need to eat more though. The kid can't just subsist on bites of toast and sips of tea. “Which you should, because food is good for you.” Then again, Sam shouldn't force himself to eat just because Dean wants him to. “But you don't have to. Obviously.”

Sam's smile almost grows into a grin while Dean ties himself in knots trying to figure out how to word his request-that-is-definitely-not-an-order. “Obviously.” He rolls his eyes a little but he does take a bagel from the bag.

Bobby takes a swig of coffee and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So... you boys figured out your next move yet?”

Dean looks at Sam. Sam looks at Dean. Bobby looks back and forth between them.

“Well,” Bobby says, when their silence has answered his question. “I've been thinking – and this ain't an order, it's an offer, since I guess we're making that abundantly clear these days - y'all practically have your own room at my place already.”

That's true. They've been dropping in and out of Bobby's house since Sam was tiny. One day they had arrived to find that one of the rooms had been (mostly) cleared of books and boxes, and a bed had been placed against the wall, made up with fresh sheets and one of the softest blankets Dean had ever encountered. He remembers nights curled up with his chubby toddler brother, falling asleep to the rumble of John and Bobby's voices drifting up the stairs.

When they grew older and bigger and started spending their nights kicking and shoving at each other for more room, a second bed had appeared. Sometimes other things would show up as well; shoes without holes or a warmer jacket with longer sleeves when one of them had a growth spurt. Bobby would only ever grunt 'Don't mention it' if either of them brought it up. John hadn't liked it – he'd get surly and defensive if something new was brought to his attention, even if Bobby excused it away as something second-hand and cheap – but he wasn't likely to notice if it wasn't pointed out. It was often easier to take Bobby's advice and be grateful in silence.

Bobby looks to Sam. “There are some decent schools down in Sioux Falls, or so I'm told. We can get you enrolled, soon as you're feeling up to it.” To Dean, he adds, “And I wouldn't mind an extra pair of hands helping out around the yard. Room's just going to waste, sitting there empty most of the time.”

Dean can feel a weight lifting from his shoulders. Desperately, he wants to say 'yes, please' and 'thank fuck' because he's been trying to figure out exactly how he's supposed to get an apartment and, like, a job, and he hasn't even thought about getting Sam enrolled in school somewhere before the kid falls any further behind, which is definitely an oversight, and the whole idea of 'the future' may or may not have been causing a series of minor panic attacks. Instead, he looks at Sam, trying to gage his reaction to the offer.

“What do you think, Sammy?” It's hard to keep the hope from his voice. “You wanna go to Bobby's?”

Sam chews on his lip, uncertain. Worried eyes slide from Dean over to Bobby, wary and mistrustful. “What training would I have to do?” he asks, dubiously.

Bobby scoffs. “Boy, I don't give a damn if you pack it all in and become a ballerina,” he declares. “You're too damn young to be hunting monsters anyway, the both of you.” Bobby must notice the sudden worry that stiffens Dean's spine because he waves an impatient hand at him, as if to brush the concern aside. “I'm not saying that you can't - you're both damn good at it. Better than a lot of hunters I know, and I'm not gonna turn down back-up if it's being offered. I'm just saying, I'm not running some sort of boot camp. If you really want to hunt, I'll teach you what I know. But Sam, if you want to go to school and be a normal kid, then you should go to school and be a normal kid. It's up to you. I ain't gonna make you do anything. Except maybe the dishes, sometimes, 'cause I bloody hate them.”

“I don't mind doing dishes,” Sam says, perking up considerably. He seems earnestly appreciative of – and surprised by – not being tasked with something harder. And the mention of school seems to resonate. There's an optimistic spark in his eyes that has been missing for far too long, something determined and cautiously hopeful. “Dean sucks at them though.”

“I do not!” Dean protests, pretending not to be thrilled at Sam is ragging on him.

“You do,” Sam insists. “You don't wash them properly.”

“Well, they're just gonna get dirty again anyway,” Dean reasons, just to see the exasperated face Sam pulls in response. For a moment, things feel normal.

Bobby watches them, lips twitching in amusement. “That a 'yes' then?”

Sam, despite his obvious delight at the prospect of going to school and being a normal kid for a change, hesitates. He grows sombre again. “I don't want to cause any trouble, or be in the way, or... not pull my weight.” He looks doubtfully at Bobby, like he can't understand why anyone would willingly allow him into their house without first giving him a list of the tasks he has to do to prove his worthiness, which is definitely something that they're going to have to work on. “Are you sure? Really?”

“I wouldn't offer if I wasn't,” Bobby assures him, and then, when Sam still seems uncertain, he adds, “If you wanna say 'no', just say so. You ain't gonna hurt my feelings.”

“No!” Sam says quickly, eyes widening in panic, as if the offer might be suddenly rescinded. “I mean yes. Please. I want to stay with you and go to school and do the dishes. That would be- If that's-” He glances at Dean for approval and maybe for help. He's starting to look distressed, like the process of making this decision is becoming overwhelming. “If that's okay?”

“Hell yeah it is,” Dean agrees enthusiastically. He turns to Bobby, quickly taking over the conversation. “What are you working on at the moment? Anything cool?”

They talk cars. (Bobby's fixing up a 1969 Mustang that sounds like she's gonna be sweet by the time he's done with her.) Sam sits silently on the bed, kind of picking at his bagel and kind of doing that statue impression thing, lost in his own thoughts.

Dean tries to ignore the pang of sadness that squeezes his lungs, threatening to choke him. He had thought, probably naively, that once the spell was broken, Sam would just go back to normal. Back to being stubborn and opinionated and mouthy. He had thought that Sam would jump at the chance to make his own choices again. Instead, they seem to flummox him, sending him into an anxious tailspin.

“Don't worry,” Bobby says quietly, after Sam has abandoned his half-eaten bagel and retreated into the bathroom to shower. “It's normal, after being under a curse for so long. He'll readjust.”

“He's different.” Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth but the words escape anyway. “What if the curse did something to him? What if that creature hurt him or changed him or something? You said it was wrapped around his soul, Bobby.”

“Souls are resilient, Dean. It takes a hell of a lot to damage one.” Bobby reaches across the table and squeezes Dean's wrist. “Unlike the rest of us,” he says pointedly, tugging Dean's arm towards him. He draws closer to inspect the fresh purpling marks that Dean had forgotten he was meant to be hiding.

“I'm fine.” Dean pulls his arm back. The bruises ache a little but they aren't that bad. Hardly worse a rough day of sparring.

Bobby looks unimpressed. “You're not fine. You've been though a hell of a thing.”

“Sam has,” Dean corrects the older hunter. “Sam's the one that-”

Bobby holds up a hand to stop him. Dean falls silent.

“You're right, the kid's been through the wringer. But so have you. Sam isn't the only one who's been betrayed by someone he trusted.”

Dean shifts in his seat. Bobby is looking at him sympathetically, which is all kinds of awkward (and maybe a little comforting, because yeah, actually, somewhere under all the fiery anger there's a great big ball of hurt. How could John do this? How could he just tear their family apart in this way? Things were... well, maybe not perfect but they were together. They were a family. Now it's ruined.)

“I'm fine,” he repeats stubbornly. “I'm just worried about Sam.”

“Course you are. And you're beating yourself up because John pulled the wool over your eyes. I get it. Things like this happen, you look back and see all the things that you could've done different. All the things you would've done different if you'd known then what you know now.” Bobby heaves a sigh. “Let me tell ya, kid, it won't help. And neither will letting Sam beat you up.”

“I didn't...” Dean trails off, glancing down at the bruises that make his denial an obvious lie.

“Yeah, you did.” Bobby shakes his head. Disapproval pinches his face. “And did it make you feel any better?”

“It wasn't supposed to make me feel better.”

“Sam then? Do you think it make him feel better?” Bobby raises a dubious eyebrow. “Actually better?”

“Well... no, I don't think so,” Dean concedes. If anything, it had actually seemed to make Sam jumpier. He'd spent the rest of the evening with his arms folded tightly over his stomach, gripping his elbows, as if he expected himself to suddenly lose control and start swinging again if he didn't hold himself down.

Bobby leans back in his chair. His eyes narrow, his jaw sets, and he looks Dean square in the eye. “Dean, this wasn't your fault. You don't deserve a beating, from Sam or from anyone, ever. The only one to blame here is John and it's a waste of time pretending otherwise.”

“But...” Dean isn't sure how to argue. It feels like he should be punished. It feels like he messed up in a thousand different ways and like there should be some way to make everything better if he can just somehow atone for everything he did wrong. He just can't figure out how to explain this feeling in a way that sounds logical, not in the face of Bobby's stern reasoning.

“You figured out what John was doing,” Bobby says. “You made sure it got put right. That's what's important.”

And Dean can't really argue with that either, except... “Did it really get put right though?” he frets. “He's so...”

“He's in shock,” Bobby asserts. ”And he's angry and scared and upset and he needs you to be there for him – as a brother, not a punching bag. Understood?”

Bobby's shrewd eyes warn against further argument and, seeing as Dean doesn't think he's likely to convince anyone that, actually, he makes a really good punching bag, he gives in, nodding. Maybe Bobby is right.

He hopes that Bobby is right.

“Understood,” Dean agrees.

They have to stop talking because Sam emerges from the bathroom, clean and dressed, and Dean goes to take his own shower. As he closes the door behind him he sees Bobby gesture to his vacated chair. Sam, with nervous obedience that makes Dean feel gut-punched, takes a seat.

It's tempting to hover, to stand guard, but Bobby dismisses him with a glance and he retreats.

He trusts Bobby. And somehow, everything feels a little bit less irreparable after talking to him. Maybe he can help Sam, too.

XXX

Bobby heads out first, saying something about stocking the fridge and putting fresh sheets on the beds. He squeezes Sam's shoulder, claps Dean on the back, and tells them that he'll see them 'at home', which feels kind of strange but also really good. Dean feels like he's been piloting a crashing plane and Bobby just pointed out a runway.

There isn't a lot to pack. Dean shoves dirty clothes into their laundry bag. Sam snags their toiletries from the bathroom.

“Okay?” Dean checks in as Sam drifts past him.

“Yeah.”

“You're sure? Because all you gotta do is say the word and we'll do something else.”

“I know. Thank you, for saying that. For letting me make decisions.” Sam flashes him a smile. It's small but it's real, even if it still seems a little sad. “You've been really awesome and I know this sucks for you too.”

Dean pauses, surprised by the unexpected acknowledgement. Sam, zipping their toiletries into the duffle bag on the bed, continues before he can figure out a response.

“I think it will be good, staying with Bobby.”

“I think so too.” Definitely, if a single conversation with Bobby sparks this many words out of Sam. The kid seems a little more at ease. Maybe Bobby managed to calm some of that sense of impending doom like he did for Dean. Even so... “But if you change your mind, at any point, if you want to leave and go somewhere else, anywhere else, I want you to tell me.”

Sam nods. “What I want matters,” he says, a little haltingly. It has the air of an affirmation, one that Sam wants to be true, even if he doesn't entirely believe it yet.

“Damn right it does,” Dean agrees.

Sam hesitates. He toys with the zip on the duffle bag, twiddling it between his fingers. He opens his mouth. Then closes it.

Dean waits.

“Do you think,” Sam asks tentatively. “If I... I know I'm failing most of my classes but, if I got my grades back up... I used to have teachers that thought I might be able to get a scholarship.”

It takes a moment for Dean to unravel what this means. “A scholarship?” he repeats, blankly confused. “You mean, like... to college?”

Sam shrugs, twitchy and nervous. “I don't know if I can, now. I'm really behind.”

“You want to go to college?”

Sam shrugs again. He runs an anxious hand over his hair. “Yeah. I thought, maybe... but I might not be able to catch up.”

Wow. Sam wants to go to college. Like, he really wants to go. Dean can tell by the tension in his spine, the anxious disappointment in his voice. Sam won't look at him. His head is down and his shoulders are hunched, like he's just waiting for Dean to shoot him down.

Dean wonders what John would have done, if Sam had told him about wanting to go to college. There wouldn't be any pride. There definitely wouldn't be encouragement.

It probably would have been ugly.

Dean takes a breath. “Are you kidding? Of course you can catch up. You're the smartest kid at every school we've been to.”

Sam's eyes dart up, scanning him for sarcasm or condescension. “You really think so?” he asks, somewhat dubiously.

“Anyone who doesn't is a moron,” Dean states firmly. “If anyone can do it, it's you, Sammy.”

“And you wouldn't mind? If I went?” Sam sounds even more dubious, watching Dean like he's waiting for an explosion.

Would he mind? Of course he would. Dean is still struggling to let go of a future that included John Winchester. How can he imagine one without Sam?

“I'd miss you,” he admits. “I don't know what I'd do, if you left.”

“You could come too,” Sam suggests, sounding hopeful. “If I got in somewhere, we could find a place nearby, together. You could get a job doing something safe.”

“And give up hunting?” Dean isn't so sure about that. Whatever evil killed their mother is still out there somewhere, along with so many other monsters. There are people to save, things to hunt.

“It was just an idea.” Sam backs down, far too fast. “It might not matter. I might not be able to do it.”

Fuck it. It's still two years away. They can cross that bridge when they get to it. “Didn't I just say that anyone who thinks you can't do it is a moron? Don't make me call you a moron, Sam. It makes it hard to remind you how smart you are.”

Sam snorts, amused.

“You're gonna catch up,” Dean says confidently. “And you're gonna get that scholarship. And when you do... I'll think about it, okay? At the very least, I'll come and monster-proof your dorm.”

Sam smiles. “Okay,” he agrees. He finally quits fiddling with the zip and hauls the duffle bag onto his shoulder.

Dean follows his lead and picks up the laundry bag. “You ready to go drive Bobby crazy?”

“You're gonna be the one driving him crazy,” Sam retorts. “I'm an angel.”

Dean barks a laugh and slings an arm around Sam's shoulders.

“You're a brat,” he says sincerely. “And you're fucking perfect.”

The End

A/N: Reviews get to be adopted by Bobby.

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