Wayward Son

Chapter 21

 "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty."

Sam's hazy grin shone down on her. Ruthie blinked her bleary eyes and tried to look around, but ended up grabbing her sore neck and moaning instead.

"I came to make sure you were alive. You've been asleep almost twenty-four hours." He set a mug of what smelled like strong coffee on the little nightstand beside her bed.

Her bed? "We're back?"

"Yep. Drove straight through. We slept it off already."

She squinted and stretched. "Ugh, this feels like coming out of a coma."

"I bet. You were out cold. You didn't even wake up when Dean carried you in."

Dean. Oh, God.

It all came rushing back. Her plea, the one thing she'd asked of him. And he'd lied to her. He wasn't going to forgive himself; he wasn't going to change.

She knew what she had to do. She hadn't been being dramatic when she told him she couldn't do it anymore. Being here, being with him but not with him, constantly gauging his fence—how high is it today? Will he raise it if I say this? Maybe he'll lower it a few inches if I do that?—she couldn't keep doing it. She wouldn't. It hurt too much.

Especially now, knowing he loved her, and that it wasn't enough. His love wasn't stronger than his guilt, or his masochism, or whatever the hell was making him torture them both.

She had no idea where she'd go, and the thought of leaving Sam—for good this time—was so painful she almost changed her mind.

"Thanks, Sam," she croaked.

"You're welcome." On his way out, he said, "I'm making dinner. Come whenever you're ready."

"Dinner?"

He chuckled. "Yep. Welcome back."

The door clicked shut behind him. She pushed herself upright, feeling like a reanimated corpse, all achy muscles and sore joints. But that discomfort was nothing compared to the anguish in her spirit. This would be her last night in the bunker. Her last night with the Winchesters. And she still had to tell them. She should have ripped off the band-aid there at the park in Boise, told Dean to take her home to the cabin instead of letting him drive her all the way back to Kansas. But she'd been too exhausted to think clearly.

She scooted to the edge of the bed and put her feet on the floor. She stood up, one hand out on her desk for stability. Her mind cleared faster than she'd expected. A quick shower, a bite of food, the mug of coffee, and she'd be back to normal.

Except she wouldn't, really. Nothing would be normal again.

She gave her head a shake, fighting back the heat rising behind her eyes. She grabbed a set of clothes from her dresser and headed to the bathroom. Thankfully, she didn't run into either of the guys.

She let the hot spray pummel her longer than usual while she relived the kiss. She wasn't sure what had possessed her. Maybe she'd been half drunk with fatigue, her inhibitions crippled. Maybe she'd hoped to change him, to trigger some earth-shattering switch inside him. She had always wanted to kiss him: maybe she'd realized this was her last chance, and she had nothing left to lose. Probably a combination of all three.

Now she wished she hadn't. It had been wonderful, better than she'd imagined, tender and yearning, like whispering the things they'd left unsaid. She'd never again smell motor oil or old leather without thinking of him and that kiss by the car. Being so close, showing him how she felt, feeling him respond to her: it was a snapshot, a living sculpture of everything she wanted, of unrealized potential. Of what might have been. Now, nothing more than an exhibit in the museum of her memory.