Title: Burning Fingers (One by One)
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Characters/Pairings: Dean, John, sister (OFC)
Spoilers: Slight spoilers for Season One
Disclaimer: Borrowed without permission and returned without damage.
She's red and wrinkly and she makes an awful lot of noise. Later, when he looks back, that's what he'll remember. The noise. Such a lot of it, from such a tiny creature. Mommy talks to her and rocks her and cuddles her close and when she's really desperate, Mommy sings to her, but it doesn't seem to help. She cries. Daddy walks up and down the hallway outside his bedroom for ages with her up on his shoulder and he rubs her back and calls her sweetheart and lovey and pumpkin and he joggles her carefully in his arms, but it doesn't seem to help either.
She cries, and she cries, and she cries.
When he asks, Mommy tells him that Alex cries because she's new and it's scary out here in the world, with noises and lights and people she doesn't know. She's only little, she doesn't understand. But she'll get used to it, Dean-o, Mommy says, and she kisses the top of his head as she hugs him. Just give her some time.
So Dean gives her time, and he runs to fetch clean diapers for Mommy and he dangles her favourite stuffed caterpillar in front her face for hours so that she can bat at and he promises her that when she's bigger he'll let her play with her Transformers. He sits with Lexie in his lap while he watches He-Man, and one night after dinner he sneaks her bites of his ice-cream till Daddy notices what he's doing and stops him. Good boy for sharing, Dean, but she's too little. He shows her how to put his Lego blocks together to build a space ship, and he reads her The Hungry Caterpillar over and over, because he's real good at counting and it's his absolute favourite book.
She still cries a lot. Sometimes Mommy and Daddy put her in her cot and leave her there to cry herself to sleep. Dean kinda hates the idea of Lexie lying up there all alone in the dark, but he also really likes the time spent downstairs on the couch tucked up between Mommy and Daddy while they watch tv and wait for her to settle, so he only protests the first time.
She cries until the night Daddy presses Lexie into his arms and shouts at him to take your sister outside as fast as you can and don't look back, now Dean, go!
She doesn't cry much at all after that.
They get a dog just before Alex's first birthday. Pastor Jim suggests it, says Daddy can't stay with Alex and Dean twenty-four hours a day and a dog will at least bark if anyone comes near them, so Daddy piles them into the car and they drive down to the local animal shelter to look. They come back with an armful of golden, wriggly puppy - not much in the way of protection, Daddy says dryly, but at least he'll make noise.
Dean names him Jo-Jo, after the teddy-bear he used to have in his room, Before. Before the fire, Before Mommy. And it's Dean's job to feed him and take him outside to go to the bathroom, and he teaches Jo-Jo to chase a ball and bring it back, laughing all the way from the inside the first time Jo-Jo galumphs towards him and knocks him over with his full-bodied wag. At night, he shows Jo-Jo how to lie on the floor beneath Alex's cot.
You bark, he tells him. You bark loud if anyone comes near her.
Jo-Jo's face softens in understanding and Dean knows that if he could talk, he'd say of course, because Dean is everything to Jo-Jo and Lexie is everything to Dean.
She's nearly 18 months old before she finally walks on her own, and then she only does so because Daddy forbids him, in his I-mean-it-Dean voice, to carry her one more step. He tries to tell Daddy that Lexie is too little, just a baby and babies can't walk, but Dad ruffles his hair and smiles sort-of sadly, and says, Dean-o, she's gotta learn. You can't always be there to catch her.
So he stays where he is, by Dad's side, as Dad drops down onto his knees and holds his arms out to Lexie. C'mon, baby. Come over to us.
Dean kneels down beside him. C'mon, Lexie. He reaches out his hands encouragingly. You can do it.
Lexie, who has been walking with her little fists clenched tightly around Dean's fingers for months now, balances against the coffee table and regards them with a frown.
C'mon baby, Dad calls again. You can do it.
Lexie tries to take a step and squeaks with frustration, holding out one hand to Dean - who has to cross his arms and tuck his hands beneath his armpits to stop himself reaching for her. She stamps one foot, an impending tantrum, but Dad just laughs and stretches his arm out a little bit more, so that she'll only have to take four or five steps to reach him. And she does, the temptation of her Daddy's arms outweighing her stubbornness to move without her brother's assistance, and she takes three-four-five toddling steps towards them. Dad snatches her up and cuddles her against him, crooning good girl and clever baby and see, that wasn't so hard, was it.
See, you can do it, Dean tells her - offering his own praise, wanting to tell her how proud he is of her.
Lexie twists in Dad's arms and glares at him, his betrayal etched in every crease of her frown.
Her anger - the knowledge that he let her down by failing to hold her hands when she asked - burns worse than a grazed knee or a bee sting, and hurts deep inside.
She's not yet five when she starts school - a couple of months early by most standards, but she's a bright little thing and Dad can't keep up with her, doesn't know how to manage the learning she craves, so he takes her down to the local school and enrols her, fudging her age on the forms. She walks into the kindergarten class like she owns it: spares him a brief grin and a chirpy goodbye Daddy before sitting down cross-legged on the carpet with the rest of the kids. She seeks Dean out on the playground at recess, familiar with layout after the many afternoons waiting with Daddy for the fourth graders to emerge, and finds him in a small knot of boys his age near the water fountains. The boys laugh when they see her, call her baby and sook and other names she doesn't recognise, but Dean silences the ringleader with a sharp blow to the stomach - intended to wind, not hurt - and walks over to put his arm around her. This is my sister, he tells them, and somehow that's enough to shut them all up.
She looks up at him gratefully. Daddy forgot my apple, she explains. I'm hungry.
Dean frowns. He gave you a packet of chips, Lex. I saw him.
Lexie frowns back. I don't want chips. I want an apple.
Well, I don't got an apple, Lex. He rummages through his pockets and comes up with a slightly squishy muesli bar. This is the best I can do.
It'll do, I guess. She takes it from him reluctantly and starts off back towards the little kids' playground.
He watches her go, feeling the sharp eyes of his classmates on him, and calls out suddenly: Hey, Lex?
She turns back. Yeah?
Remember to wait for me, okay? This afternoon, when you get out. I'll meet you at your classroom, and we'll wait for Dad together.
Lexie scrunches her nose. Well, duh. She says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world; like it never occurred to her that Dean might let her wait there alone.
Dean nods, because it never occurred to him either.
She's a few days shy of her ninth birthday and they've just moved into a run-down old apartment in Michigan when she wakes in the middle of the night screaming about a something in her closet.
Dean spills out of his bed and has reached Alex's door before he's fully awake, colliding bodily with Dad, who is in the process of wrenching the door open. They burst into the room, Dad with shotgun brandished, and he runs over to snatch Alex out of the tangle of her blankets as Dad throws back the closet doors and thrusts the muzzle of the shotgun inside.
The whole thing happens quickly, less than fifteen seconds between the time she first screams and the moment Dean realises that whatever threat she imagined came from a nightmare, because Jo-Jo is pressing his nose between Dad's legs and looking into the closet too, wagging his tail at the sudden arrival of the rest of the family.
If there had been something there, something real, the dog would be going off his head.
Dad realises it about the same time, shoulders relaxing with relief. He flicks the safety on the shotgun; sets it down against the closet door. Jesus, Lexie. You scared the crap out of me.
There's something in there, Lexie sobs, face against Dean's shoulder. Dad crosses the room to sit down on the bed, patting his knee gently for Lexie to join him. She does, casting fearful glances at the closet as wriggles free from Dean's arms and half-runs to Dad, who scoops her up and deposits her in his lap. There's nothing there, baby. I checked. Dean checked. Jo-Jo's not barking. You had a bad dream, that's all.
She shakes her head, adamant. No, no, I heard it.
Dad kisses the top of her head. Lexie, honey, there's nothing there. It's late; hop back into bed. His tone brooks no argument, so she allows him to put her back in bed, draw the blankets up around her shoulders, bend down to kiss her again. Sleep, Lex. It's late.
He picks up the shotgun, and pauses at the door. You too, Dean. You got school tomorrow.
Yes sir, Dean says, but as soon as Dad's disappeared from sight he crosses the room to sit down on the end of Alex's bed. I'll stay for a while, kid. Make sure you get to sleep.
She nods, green eyes full of fear and unshed tears. Jo-Jo resumes his usual spot on the floor by her bed.
Dean watches her til morning.
He and Dad are both convinced that it's over, but Lexie wakes up screaming again on the second night, and the third night she doesn't sleep in her own bed at all - waiting for the familiar thump of Dad's boots on the floor by his bed before sneaking out of her room and across the hallway to Dean. She spends the night with Dean's body curled protectively around hers. So when dusk hits on the fourth night, Dad signals for Alex to follow him into his room, where he extracts an empty .45 from a duffel at the back of his own closet. He shows Alex how to fit it into her hand, how to pull back the safety and depress the trigger, how to reload and fire again. She nods seriously - it's a reaffirmation of a lesson she's known almost since birth - and follows Dad's hand motions, fingers small and slightly unsteady. Then Dad takes the pistol back, and loads it. He uses blanks; Dean recognises the little yellow bands around the end of the casing and he rolls with it, telling Lexie to be very, very careful with the pistol as she carries it back to her room.
They camp out on her bed, Dad resting against the wall and Dean on the other end, Alex sitting upright between them with her entire being focused on the open closet in front of her. Jo-Jo lies, completely unperturbed, on the carpet beside her bed.
The glowing hands of Dad's watch have just ticked over 2.45am when Alex stiffens suddenly, every muscle in her body tensing. She raises her eyebrows at Dean: did you hear it? He nods, though he didn't hear a thing. Dad straightens as Alex releases the safety. Soft and sure, he tells her, barely louder than his silent breathing. Alex nods and takes an audible breath…aims, and depresses the trigger. Once, twice, three times. The noise is shockingly loud in the otherwise quiet night and Jo-Jo leaps up with a bark. Dad gets up and crosses the room with sure, steady strides. Peers into the back of the closet, pretending to look closely. Think you got it kiddo, he calls.
Really? Alex leaps up to look but Dean, keeping up his end of the bargain, catches her arm and keeps her sitting beside him. Wait Lex, let Dad check it out.
Dad emerges after a few moments with a dark bundle of stained cloth Dean recognises as the sweatshirt he'd trashed on the last job. Yeah, you got it. Good shooting, Lexie.
What was it? Alex leans forward, eager to look.
Dad's smile flashes bright in the dark room. Not sure. There's not a lot left. I'm going to go and dispose of the remains. Dean, you make sure that pistol is empty.
Dean takes the gun from his sister's hand. Unloads it, pockets the remaining bullets. He wraps an arm around her and echoes Dad. Good shooting, Lex. Can you sleep here now, do you think?
She nods. Yeah. He stands up to leave, but she grabs at his arm. Can you stay tonight, though? Please?
He stays. He always does.
She's eleven when Jo-Jo dies.
Dad spends money they don't have on vet bills that don't help as the cancer spreads through Jo-Jo's body, and though they both know that the most humane thing to do would be to take him out the back and end his suffering quickly, they don't because neither of them can bear to do it to Alex. So when it's time, finally – when even Alex can see that the cancer is eating him alive – they take him to the vet one last time.
He and Alex share the backseat and she sits quietly with Jo-Jo's head in her lap, stroking his ears and murmuring soft words Dean's not meant to catch. And fuck if Dean isn't also teary as he moves his hands gently over the dog's flank, stroking and patting and soothing. Dad doesn't say anything the entire drive.
When they get there, Dad has to lift Jo-Jo out of the car. Stay here with your brother, he tells Alex, but she won't have it. I'm going with you.
Dad's face is tight and he reaches out to stroke Alex's hair, very gently. Honey, you don't need to. I'll be there, I'll take care of him.
Alex shakes her head. Jo-Jo's my dog.
Sweetie, no. You don't need to see this -
He's family. Her chin wobbles, but she sets her face with stubborn determination. You told us to always stick together.
Dad starts to speak, then thinks better of it and sighs. Okay. Okay. Come on, then.
They go inside and a vet nurse leads them straight to an examination room. Dad puts Jo-Jo down carefully on the table and Alex goes right to him, bending so that she can press her face against the soft fur on his head. It's okay, Jo-Jo. You're a good boy. You're a good boy.
Dean stands beside her, one hand on her back, the other next to hers on Jo-Jo's front leg. The vet talks with Dad, then disappears before coming back with a large syringe.
They've seen a lot growing up, he and Alex, but they've never seen death like this – swift and merciful and peaceful, yes, but also personal and heartbreaking in a way nothing's been since Mom burned on the ceiling of Alex's nursery. Jo-Jo breathes softly as the vet syringes the thick green liquid into his foreleg. There's still a few centimetres left when Jo-Jo gives one last, shuddering sigh and dies with Alex's arms loose and familiar around his neck.
Dean has tears wet on his face and Dad's eyes are glittering suspiciously. Alex remains where she is, face still pressed against her dog's soft fur. Dean reaches for her but she twists suddenly as his hands land on her shoulders; turns to their father. Dad, I…
C'mere, baby. He steps past Dean, gathers her up in arms. Alex's head goes down on his shoulder and Dad presses his lips to the top of her head. I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry.
Dean, no longer needed, strokes Jo-Jo's ears as she sobs out her grief against Dad's neck.
She's thirteen when the front of shirts start to fill out; thirteen and a half when she locks herself in the bathroom and refuses to come out. It takes them a while to figure it out because this is Lexie, but eventually common sense sinks in and Dean shares a horrified look with Dad, who disappears and returns half an hour later with a brown paper bag from the pharmacy down the road. There's no way known that Dad can have this conversation with his baby girl, so Dean takes the bag and forces the lock on the bathroom, and fends off his sister's fury enough to explain that he has what she needs. She snatches the bag from him and shoves him bodily out the door. She emerges a good ten minutes afterwards and Dean looks up, half-prepared to - but she walks over to where he's sitting on the bed, wraps her arms around him and hugs him, quickly. Thankyou.
He glances towards the door. Dad's outside, avoiding this conversation via a manufactured urgency to stock take the boot. He could tell Lexie that it was Dad who ran down the road to get the stuff, but that would just embarrass them both. So he hugs her back, quickly, and ruffles her hair. No problems, kid.
She climbs onto the bed beside him, and they spent the afternoon eating chips and watching old Simpsons re-runs.
Lexie at fourteen is all gangly limbs and long brown hair. She starts to argue about everything - what she wants for dinner, how late she wants to stay out, what music they listen to as they drive, the clothes she wants and they can't afford to buy. She makes it through the year more by the grace of God than anything Dad and Dean do; it takes great restraint on both their behalves not to stuff her bodily into the trunk of the Impala whenever she lets loose with her tongue.
She comes home from school one day with her hair hacked off to her shoulders and the soft brown replaced by a harsh bottled blonde with bright blue streaks through it. Dad takes one look at it and goes ape-shit, demanding that she march right back to the hairdressers and dye it all back. His argument is non-sensical to Dean - you can't exactly un-bleach hair - but he knows by now to stay the hell out of their way when they start up, so he disappears into the bedroom he shares with her and waits for the screaming to stop. Which it does, forty minutes later, when Alex storms up the hallway to the bedroom with Dad bellowing your ass is grounded, Alex, after her.
She slams the door behind her, then wrenches it open and slams it again for good measure.
Dean looks up from the magazine he's reading. Finished?
She whirls around. I'm fifteen. I'm not a kid anymore. It's just a haircut, for chrissake!
It is, he agrees easily. And I like it. Suits you.
Her face softens. Really? She's desperate to make someone understand why she did it. Dean gets it, because at her age he tried to prove the same point by drinking so much at some faceless kid's party in small-town Minnesota that his buddies panicked and called his father. Dad had to stick his fingers down his throat to stop him choking on his own vomit, and once the worry had dissipated, his father's sharp, furious I expected better of you, Dean, was enough to turn his blood cold. His ass was also grounded and he learned his lesson well enough to exert his point in other, less confrontational ways. Unlike Alex, whom he suspects will never learn.
Really, he tells her, and means it.
Her face collapses. There are tears pooling in her eyes as she throws herself down on her bed, rolling over to curl herself around her pillow. He gets up; squeezes her shoulder in silent understanding, and leaves the room so that she can sob out her grief in the only privacy their life allows her.
She's a smart one, their Lex, and evidence of her intelligence extends well beyond her straight A grades at school. She loves Dad, and because she loves him, she learns how to hurt him with her words.
I'm not a kid anymore, Dad! It's her favourite refrain, a phrase Dean has heard so often his ears no longer recognise the individual syllables.
Goddamnit, Alex, you'll always be my kid, Dad roars back. And Alex, who has her hand on the front door, whirls back to scream at him well maybe I don't want to be before storming out of the house. She slams the door so hard the glass panes in the window rattle.
Dad stares after her, shock and hurt etched in every line of his suddenly old face.
They eat dinner in silence. Dean cleans up afterwards; Dad disappears for an hour and returns with a six-pack of beer he knocks off in quick succession on the couch in front of the tv. At midnight, Dean leaves him to it and goes upstairs - not to bed, because he won't sleep til Alex is home, but he can't stand the silence of Dad's breaking heart.
It's almost three in the morning when the front door opens. Dean drops his book and heads downstairs to find his sister standing just inside the door with swollen eyes and mascara-streaked cheeks. She pushes past Dean into the living room, where Dad is still sitting on the couch with an empty beer bottle dangling unheeded from one hand. He turns towards her at the sound of her tentative footsteps, but before he can say anything Lexie blurts out oh god Daddy I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it.
Dad sighs. Lex…
Alex hears something in his voice that Dean doesn't, because she takes the last few steps at a run and throws herself at him. Dad drops the beer bottle with a dull thud andreaches for her: it's been years since she's been small enough to fit in his lap and she doesn't fit now, but Dad takes her in his arms and he makes her fit, this tangle of long limbs and pink-streaked hair and too-tight clothes. He holds her tightly and her head goes down on his shoulder; she sobs into his neck. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
Dad's hands smooth her back, tangle in her hair. Me too, Lexie. Me too. He holds her and he rocks her. It's okay baby. Shh. We're okay, baby. We're okay.
Dean, watching, wonders in some small part of himself what it would be like to be loved and forgiven that completely.
She grows out of the attitude quickly after that, thank God, and Lexie at sixteen is five feet eight inches worth of smooth skin and long legs that even Dean can admit warrant attention from the opposite sex. It doesn't stop him wanting to pound the living shit out of the first guy to show up at the door of their Atlanta townhouse to take her out on a date, but one look from Alex is enough to curb his fists and Dad's probing questions. They wait up for her, though, and when she comes back with her cheeks flushed bright red and a smile stretching from her lips all the way to the depths of her eyes, Dean takes one look at her and drags her upstairs to his bedroom. He sits her down on the bed and ignores her protests about having covered all this in sex ed at school as he takes the box from the top draw of his dresser and throws it at her with strict instructions that if it ain't on, it ain't on. He makes her open a foil packet and roll the condom onto the fingers of her opposite hand, just to be sure that she knows what she's doing. And she does it, face set in a familiar stubborn stance - if he can show her without flinching, she's damn well going to do as he says without shying away.
After he's done lecturing her about the thousand reasons she needs to be careful about letting guys into her pants and a thousand more instructions on how to make sure she's safe, he stops and, looking down at his boots as he scuffs the carpet gently, adds almost inaudibly, I don't want you to get hurt, Lex.
She scowls. It was just a date, Dean. That's all. Just one date.
It won't always be. There are red patches on his neck, a sure sign that he's more uncomfortable with this part of the conversation than he was fifteen seconds ago. One day you're gonna think it's the right guy, and I just…look, just make sure he's good enough for you, okay?
Her face softens in sudden understanding. I will.
He reaches over and ruffles her hair in that old, familiar gesture of affection. Just do me a favour and don't bring the guy you finally sleep with to the door. I don't want to have to bail Dad out for beating the guy to death.
She laughs, standing up, and pockets the box. I promise.
It's a scant three days after Alex's seventeenth birthday when a job goes wrong, goes worse than wrong, and he's barely able to drag an unconscious Dad back to the car before his legs collapse out from under him. Alex tries to catch him but she can't take his weight and they go down together, an awkward tangle of bodies and weapons. He hers the snap of breaking bones but he's too fucked up to tell if the limb in question belongs to himself or his sister. We gotta go, he tells her, struggling to regain his feet. We gotta - Lex, we gotta move. We gotta go.
She nods, understanding the urgency, and climbs unsteadily to her feet. She braces herself against the car door and hauls Dean to his: between them, they manage to get Dad up and into the backseat. Dad's going to be okay, he tells her, he's out cold but he should wake up. He doesn't tell her that he himself has lost a great deal of blood from the wound on his left shoulder, though she knows that something's wrong the moment he shoves her towards the driver's seat. Go, Lex. Get us gone.
They hole up at Caleb's place, to heal and recover and restock their supplies. The planned few days turns into a week, because Dad's nursing shattered ribs and it turns out the fucking thing punched a hole all the way through Dean's goddamned shoulder, and before anyone's really conscious of the turning time, the week stretches into weeks and then into a month, and then another.
Dean and Alex have always loved it here; it's one of the few places in the world they've come to associate with home. It's safe, not just because Caleb knows what he's doing and the property is as tight as the proverbial drum, but because Dad relaxes here, his shoulders gradually easing as the weight of the world comes momentarily off them, and it's at Caleb's place that Dean can really see Dad as he was Before.
They've been here just under two months when Dean wakes suddenly in the middle of the night, unaccountably hungry beyond reason. He rolls out of bed and staggers sleepily down the stairs, making a bee-line for the kitchen, when he hears Alex's soft voice in the lounge room. She stopped taking pain killers for her broken wrist weeks ago and more than likely she's up watching old girlie cable movies, but old habits die hard and changes direction with the intent of checking on her.
It's only when he's starting to push open the door that he registers Caleb's equally soft voice in reply, and he opens his mouth to call out to them -
- only to stop cold at the sight of his sister, his baby sister, curled up on the couch in Caleb's arms, Caleb's mouth hot and wet on her neck.
What the fuck?
He can see the flash of bare shoulder against the purple tanktop Alex loves to sleep in and the long length of her bare legs beneath the matching purple boxers. Caleb's hands move restlessly along her legs and under the tanktop and Alex is writhing beneath him, but when she whimpers and tries to press herself closer to him, Caleb stops and reaches to catch her hands in his own. No, Lex. It's not going to happen, not like this.
Please. Her voice is a breathless whisper two-parts sob. I want to, I want you -
No, Caleb repeats, and Dean can hear the profound regret in his voice. You're his daughter, Lexie. I can't do that to him. He ducks his head to kiss her, quick and urgent. It's not right.
Dean steps away before he can hear his sister's response.
Part of him wants to find Caleb and beat him senseless, another part of him wants to pretend it never happened. In the end, though, it's Caleb who brings the subject up the following night after dinner, as they're stacking the dishwasher. It won't happen again.
Dean nods, continues to load the plates. Then, unable to help himself, he blurts out she's my sister, man.
Caleb's nod echoes his own. I know. And that's why it won't happen.
Caleb is as good as his word and they both know it: if he says it won't happen, it won't.
The next day, Alex asks Dad if they can leave. She's found them a job three states over, and if they shag ass they can reach it by the end of the week.
They're rested, restocked, ready. Dad says yeah, congratulates her on her initiative.
Dean hears the pulse of her broken heart beat stronger with every mile.
She doesn't bother to hide the letters, not the ones she sends out and not the ones that come back months later with university crests emblazoned in the top left corner, because even without the tangible evidence, her desire to go, to leave this life, shines deep in her eyes. Dad knows what's happening, just as Dean knows, but neither of them say anything til one evening late in the summer, when they take her out to dinner - their Lexie, valedictorian - in a belated celebration of her high school graduation and she takes a crumpled, oft-read letter from her bag.
I got in, she says calmly. Stanford. Full ride. And I'm going.
No question asked, no permission sought. Statement of fact, solid and absolute.
Pride swells in Dean's chest - a full ride to any college is no small thing, a full ride to the Ivy League is outstanding. Before he can offer his congratulations, Dad says slowly, I don't want you to go, Lex.
It's Dean who protests. What? Dad, why? This is a good thing for her. It gets her the hell away from here. Gets her away from their life, he thinks but doesn't say, and it's important to him because she hasn't been the same since that job gone wrong.
I don't want her away from here. I want her with me, with you, where we can keep an eye on her. Keep you safe, he adds, looking at Lexie for the first time.
Her eyes are soft with understanding. It's not safe, Dad. Not here or anywhere else. You've got to trust me to take care of myself.
It ain't about you, Lex. It's bigger than you, than us. You know that.
She nods her head, smooth brown hair cascading over her shoulders. I do. But I want this, Dad. I need it.
Dad's sigh is heavy and heartfelt. I can't keep you safe out there, baby. You're not going.
She stands up from the table; shoulders her bag and leans back down to kiss Dad's forehead. It doesn't work like that anymore, Dad. It's my choice. And I am going.
Turns out that over the years Dad has learned to hurt Lexie just as well as Lexie learned to hurt Dad, because he looks up at her, dark eyes pooling anger and grief, and says softly, if you leave, you stay gone.
She looks steadily back at him, Mom's eyes in Dad's face, and her soft voice cannot hide her heartache, not from Dean. If that's the way you want it.
It's not what he wants. It's not want any of them want. But it's the way it's going to be, because they're Winchesters and they don't know how to take what they deserve from the world without leaving broken pieces of themselves behind in exchange.
He goes to Lexie, because he doesn't know what else to do. He's fucked. Fucked up, fucked over. And he can't do this on his own.
So, he goes to her.
He drives straight through, stopping only to fill up the car with gas, and arrives in Palo Alto just after 2am on Thursday morning. There's no hidden key under the mat and no flimsy lock on the door that can be jimmied with a credit card and paper clip. They taught her better than that; she's a Winchester and it's a lesson she's learned well. But the window in the kitchen has a loose frame, and if he wriggles it at just the right angle, he can remove the glass and climb through. He was going to fix it the last time he was here, but Alex stopped in. It's a way to get out, she says, when he tells her it's too easy to get in.
Right now, he's glad he listened to her. He stands on the balcony and working quietly and efficiently, has the glass out of the window frame and resting carefully on the ground in a matter of minutes. He braces himself carefully and slips silently inside.
Never let it be said that his sister sleeps soundly. She meets him in the lounge room with a series of fast punches and kicks, body moving instinctively before he can call out to her. He blocks her, though not quite as easily as he used to be able to, and is about to call out her But then she does recognise him, and her eyes widen and her punch goes wild.
He catches her arm as she swings and has her down and pinned to the carpet in less than a heartbeat. Pretty rusty there, kiddo.
She bucks once beneath him, knee grazing dangerously close to his balls - enough to let him know that she's got the right amount of leverage to do serious damage without actually doing it. Okay, he concedes, maybe not that rusty.
He rolls off her and regains his feet; reaches down to tug her to hers. Been a while, Lexie.
She nods. It has.
There's a soft noise in the doorway behind her. Didn't break my girl, did you? Jesse scratches idly at his chest, apparently unconcerned at the sight of his girlfriend's brother standing inside his locked apartment at 2.30 in the morning. After all, it's not an uncommon occurrence. Alex snorts. I didn't break him, which should be your real concern. Jess smiles.
He's never going to get used to this guy fucking his baby sister.
We gotta talk, Lex.
And we can't do that here?
He shakes his head slightly, hoping to convey the need for privacy. Dad hasn't been home in a few days.
So? Alex shrugs, vaguely concerned but not worried enough to voice it. He'll show up. He always does.
He looks at Jesse, and then at Alex. Raises his eyebrows. Dad's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days.
Alex's eyes widen in understanding. Jess, excuse us. We need to talk.
Jesse nods. Leave you to it, then. He disappears back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
Alex makes for the kitchen. Coffee? Because they're Winchesters, and the conversation they're about to have necessitates it.
Sure. He follows her, sitting down at the tiny kitchen table while she moves around, filling the kettle, pulling the cups out of the cupboard, digging through the fridge for the milk cartoon. Pansy, he teases automatically as she stirs the milk through her cup. But there's no humour behind it and she doesn't bother to answer. Why are you here, Dean?
He tells her - about Dad, and the trail in Jericho, and the weeks it's been since he last heard from him. Hasn't answered his phone, Lexie. Tried the last hotel he was staying at, got nothing.
It's nothing new. She twists the coffee cup absently in her hand. The poltergeist in Amherst, or the devil's gates in Clifton? He was missing then too, but he showed up. He always does. And he's always fine.
It's not like that this time, Lex.
She accepts his certainty with a short, tight nod. Why do you need me?
I can't do this alone.
She stares at him. Yes, you can. Because it's never truly occurred to her, now or when they were growing up, that there are some things he cannot do.
He hopes the loss doesn't show on his face. Yeah, well I don't want to.
It seems like an eternity before she nods her head one final time, in acquiescence and agreement. Okay. I have to be back by Monday, but I'll go with you.
He reaches out to ruffle her hair. Thanks, Lexie. Then he grins, tugging at her short, tight boxers and equally short and tight t-shirt. Now go get some clothes on, before I have to go in there and beat the ever-loving crap out of your boyfriend.
Gotta get through me first, big brother. She grins back.
When she comes back a few minutes later, she's fully dressed.
He goes back. He doesn't know, not in that moment and not later, why he does it. But he does. Because he knows, maybe, in the dark part of himself that the normalcy she craves and the safety she deserves can never belong to her. Because Alex is his sister, and he can feel in his blood that something is not right, not good, not safe.
So he parks the car by the side of the road and jogs back to the apartment complex, taking the stairs a few at a time. Tries to tell himself that he's being stupid, that there's nothing wrong and Lexie's gonna kick his ass for – but the smoke is already curling hot and black beneath the door of her apartment and he doesn't hesitate. He puts his shoulder to it and it bursts open beneath his weight.
He can hear Lexie; voice raised in a panicked shout. He follows the sound to find her standing by the bed, a .45 in her hand and a look of absolute horror on her face as she watches Jesse burn on the ceiling of their bedroom.
Ah, fuck. Fuck! His duffle is in the car, he has no weapons, nothing to protect her with. But it doesn't matter, his brain makes sense of what his eyes cannot and in less than three heartbeats he knows that there's only one thing he can do. He crosses the room at a run. Lexie, move! We gotta go!
She struggles in his grip. No, no! Jess! Jess!
Leave him! You can't help him Lex, he's gone. But we need to leave, now!
She screams, incoherent in her fear and rage. He grabs for her again, lifting her bodily against him to force her from the room, arms wrapped tightly around her to stop her pulling away.
The hallway outside the apartment is filled with the thud of frantic feet and panicked voices. Fucking civilians. He pauses in the living room, tugs the gun out of Alex's hand and tucks it into the back of his jeans. He rips open the front door, and Alex makes a gutted noise of protest. He propels her forward, out into the crowd of people making for the fire stairs.
The echo of sirens is sounding in the near distance as he hustles her through the people and down the stairs, not relinquishing his hold on her arm. They're less than ten feet from the bottom of the stairs when she twists suddenly, vomiting, but he doesn't let her stop, keeps her moving forward. Keep going, Lexie. You gotta keep going. Then they're out in the street, and heading for the car, and he's still holding her by the arm as he pops the boot and reaches inside for his duffle. He doesn't think the fucker's coming back, but no way is he taking the risk, not with Alex pale and shaking next to him.
She protests; tries to pull away when he unlocks the passenger side and attempts to push her gently inside. No, he could be – the ambulance is coming. I need to know.
Lexie…honey, he's gone. You saw it.
She shakes her head again, violently. Dean, please. Please.
So they wait, sitting together on the hood of his car, one arm holding Alex against him and the other hand resting inside the flap of his jacket, where's he's hiding a sawn-off shotgun loaded with rock salt. It takes almost two hours to get the fire under control, a further three before they allow the paramedics into the building. They emerge forty minutes later with a black body bag on a stretcher - such a small body bag, no where near big enough for Jesse's six feet and 180 pounds. Alex's breath catches sharply in her throat when she sees it. He holds her tighter, desperate on some level to press her into his own body if he can stop this from hurting her, but of course he can't and he fingers the shotgun helplessly as they load the stretcher into the ambulance.
It's nearly dawn when he puts her carefully into the front seat of the Impala, reaching into the car to strap the seatbelt around her because she doesn't seem able to move herself. He drives till he finds a hotel somewhere off the main roads - every instinct in him is screaming to get the hell out of here, but Alex is in no shape to keep going. He undoes her seatbelt and opens her door; Lexie climbs unsteadily to her feet. C'mon, baby, he says softly. Let's get you inside.
She moves as though every bone in her body hurts. He holds out his arm to help her and she leans against him, lets him propel her gently into the room. He sits her down on the queen-size bed, tells her to wait a moment while he gets her a clean change of clothes from the trunk. When he returns, he finds her tucked into herself, knees up under her chin.
Dean sits down beside her, not sure what to say, what to do, when his sister is going to pieces before him.
Dean, she says, and she grabs at him, her fingers clenching in fists around his shirt. He's gone, he's gone. There are bruises in the shape of his fingers on her arm. I don't. I can't. He's gone.
He reaches for her, but she won't let him hold her. I did this. It's my fault. Dad told me, he told me.
It's not your fault, he says - quickly, firmly. There's nothing you could have done, Lexie, nothing.
She shakes her head. No, no. I should have - I know - oh god Dean he's gone, he's gone.
Her tears come, violent and wild. He manages to get his arms around her then, drawing him against her. Understanding, in this moment, what it meant for Dad to be helpless in the face of this kind of pain. He doesn't tell her that it's okay, because it's not okay and he can't make it okay. He doesn't tell her to stop, because she's earned these tears, tonight and all the nights before this one. He just holds her, and he rocks her as he's seen Dad do when she's hurt, and he murmurs to her that he loves her, he loves her, he's here with her now, always.
Just like he always has been, their entire lives.
Always, Lex. Always.