emrys777

Closing Two Eyes 2 of 2

Mon, 03 Nov 2008 20:41:45 GMT

A/N: See the first chapter for Disclaimer! Then, enjoy!

Closing Two Eyes – Chapter Two

John’s eyes flutter closed, and the panic Rodney has been feeling up to this point spikes hard and heavy in his chest. But it’s short-lived because then Sheppard’s eyes flutter back open and the man’s breathing improves. Rodney doesn’t even think about how odd it is that the man who up until a minute ago was breathing raggedly and painfully now seems able to draw breath easily. Maybe it’s because a small part of his brain wants to believe his friend is going to be all right. Maybe it’s because he’s too afraid to think clearly. Regardless of the reason, though, it’s a mistake not to wonder about the abrupt change in Sheppard’s status.

It’s a mistake, but Rodney doesn’t realize that yet.

“Why should I let you forget about it, McKay?” Sheppard demands, and the words leave his mouth with a bitterness Rodney has rarely ever heard, and one that has never been directed at him. “It’s your ego that almost got us killed then, and it’s what’s probably going to get me killed now. You couldn’t wait until Ronon and I secured the place. You’re always just a little too eager and willing to risk all our lives for some scientific curiosity.”

“What in the hell are you talking about, Colonel?” Rodney asks sharply. The words hurt, but at the same time they’re an affront. Especially since Sheppard was just as eager to search the palace and the one to command the team to split up so they could explore the large space quicker.

“I’m talking about your huge ego, McKay. How can you call yourself a genius when the simplest ideas go way over your head?” Sheppard’s face expresses abject disgust.

Confusion washes over Rodney. “Are you sure you’re all right, Sheppard?” he asks the fallen man concernedly. “You sure you didn’t crack your head when you crashed to the floor?” Rodney leans forward to get a better look at the back of Sheppard’s head, but the man moves away from him as well as he can given his current status of being pasted to the floor by a glazed mosaic ceiling.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” John snarls, and there’s a black, vicious look in the man’s eyes that has Rodney stumbling backward and yelling into his radio again.

“Teyla! Teyla, are you still there?” he queries, as an obviously altered Sheppard begins to direct a continuous flow of obscenities at him. “Teyla! Something’s really wrong with Colonel Sheppard! I think he’s possessed,” he yells even though Teyla has not yet acknowledged him.

“You shouldn’t be here, you sanctimonious bastard!” Sheppard yells and fights against the weight that’s pressing against his chest. Rodney is frightened by both the colonel’s behavior and the fact he isn’t registering any pain from his struggles. And although normally he doesn’t want to see anyone in pain, Rodney’s pretty sure it’s bordering on a special type of weirdness when a man isn’t fazed by cracked ribs being crushed into lung space.

“Colonel, please, you need to settle down,” Rodney says, only to receive an almost animalistic growl from the man in return. “Sheppard—”

“Rodney?”

It’s Teyla’s voice, and Rodney hasn’t heard anything quite so lovely in some time. “Teyla! Oh, thank god! Where the hell are you? Sheppard’s really wigging out and—”

“Rodney, you must slow down. What has happened?” Teyla sounds amazingly calm.

Rodney feels a rush of irritation because it seems as if he’s in this state of panic all on his own. Nevertheless, he forces himself to calm down and ignore the stream of cursing Sheppard has started up again. “The Colonel started acting weird a few minutes ago,” Rodney says as slowly as his fear will allow him. “Where are you? We need to get Beckett here as soon as possible.”

“Weird? What do you mean, Rodney?” Teyla asks, and her breathing quickens noticeably.

“Yelling and fighting! He’s actually trying to pick a fight with me from under a ceiling!” His feeble composure’s beginning to dissolve. “I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself.”

“All right, Rodney. Try to keep Colonel Sheppard calm. Ronon and I are nearing the palace’s gate and will notify Atlantis that we are in need of a medical team to care for the colonel. I will rendezvous with you as soon as I possibly can.”

“Keep him calm! Are you kidding?” Rodney yells exasperatedly as he watches Sheppard continue to struggle and curse. “He’s acting crazy, and there’s no reasoning with him! I mean, I’m surprised he’s not frothing at the mouth!”

“Rodney! You must do the best you can!” Teyla commands.

Rodney’s been giving into his panic again. “Okay, okay, okay,” he snaps angrily. “I’ll do the best I can. But trust me when I say it’s not going to be easy.”

“Trust you! Trust you!” Sheppard roars as Teyla signs off the radio. “That’s a laugh! No, not just a laugh! That’s hysterical! Whoever the fuck is stupid enough to trust Doctor Rodney McKay and his bountiful ego deserves whatever the hell happens to them! Trust! Trust you! God damn it, get me out of here, and I’ll show you just how much I—”

John’s tirade abruptly ends, and the man’s eyes roll in their sockets. His breathing falters, and suddenly he’s transformed from the frightening distortion of the man Rodney’s grown to respect, into his familiar friend with a newly broken body.

“Rodney?” Sheppard breathes his name, and then he’s unconscious again.

Rodney rushes forward and checks his pulse. He’s still alive but weaker, and McKay can’t help but wonder how badly Sheppard aggravated his injuries during his brief episode of insanity. He brushes a hand through the colonel’s plaster-coated hair, and although he finds a little blood, there’s no indication of a skull fracture. He takes a moment to contemplate that maybe the colonel has a concussion, and maybe such an injury could explain the bizarre behavior he just witnessed.

Rodney sits down heavily next to Sheppard, all the while maintaining his grasp on the colonel’s wrist in an effort to both monitor the man’s pulse and to preserve some sort of physical contact with him. He bows his head as he tries to make sense of this situation that has him reeling with fear and self-doubt. Sheppard’s words of condemnation momentarily overwhelm Rodney’s thoughts, and he feels the sharp edge of defeat press against him. For a little while now, he’s been under the shaky impression he was winning back the colonel’s trust after the disastrous blow it had taken from the Dorandan incident. And yet he now knows he was deluded in his supposition, because the colonel just made it clear, so painfully clear, that his trust in Rodney is well beyond repair.

The possibility of irreparable damage to their relationship is something Rodney, a man of many insecurities, worried about for weeks after Doranda. But he steadily moved away from such worries as time and consideration showed him Sheppard was open and willing to give Rodney a chance to redeem himself.

The disparity between what he, to this point, presumed and what Sheppard’s rant showed him stimulates a cascade of quieter, more subtle thoughts. His reawakened insecurity drowns them out at first. But soon they’re gaining momentum and becoming the most important thoughts Rodney has had in a while.

Because now, as Sheppard’s hateful words continue to echo within the confines of Rodney’s agile mind, there’s a small, submerged part of him that can’t help considering that something a little more strange, and possibly a lot more dangerous, is going on with Sheppard than what can be explained by a run-of-the-mill head wound.

A little more strange. And a lot more dangerous.

oOo

John’s vision is decidedly blurry when he opens his eyes, but he can see well enough to discern Rodney’s stricken expression. When he clears his throat, which is coated with so much dust, it feels like desert sands, the sound of his waking draws Rodney’s attention to him. And now, as the physicist leans over him, Sheppard can see that Rodney doesn’t look so much unhappy as he does worried.

“Colonel? How are you feeling?” McKay asks, smiling in a way he probably thinks is reassuring but which just succeeds in freaking John way the hell out.

“What’s…with the pearly…whites?” he asks in a rough whisper. His breathing is more labored now than it was the last time he was conscious, and he can’t account for the change. Since any shifting around could worsen his injuries, he’s been careful to just lie still. And as far as he recollects, there’s no reason for the pain that has ratcheted up several notches since he was last aware.

“You okay?” Rodney asks, and now he’s looking more concerned.

“Breathin’s…worse,” John responds. Rodney comes closer, and John feels the vague pressure of the other man’s fingers on the pulse point in his right wrist.

“You must have exacerbated your injuries when you went all crazy earlier,” Rodney mutters.

“Wh…what?” John asks dumbly.

“You don’t remember?”

“What the…hell…are you talkin’...about?” John asks and draws in a breath that lies heavy and thick in his damaged lungs.

“You flew off the handle just a little while ago, Colonel,” McKay explains in a bitter tone that has John wondering what the hell really happened. His confusion must be evident because Rodney apparently feels the need to clarify. “You know? Bonkers. Cuckoo. You were talking all sorts of nonsense.”

“Nonsense? What…sorta nonsense?”

“Oh, well, let’s see. Let’s start with the swearing, and the fighting, and, oh, let’s not forget you babbling on and on about how much you hate me.” Rodney says the words quickly, but John can tell he’s been hurt by whatever it was that happened.

“Rodney, I don’t…remember. Must…be my head. I—”

“Oh, yeah, sure, that’s what I thought at first,” Rodney says. He bends his neck and rubs at his temples as if he’s in pain. “But then I started getting the feeling that even if you were half out of your head, there was a part of you that really meant what you were saying.”

“Rodney, I don’t know—”

“This whole situation is completely FUBAR,” Rodney says and then settles down against the nearest wall, while John feels a momentary stab of surprise that the physicist has been reduced to using the harsh military phrase.

“Rodney, what…what’s—”

“Never mind, I need to sleep,” Rodney mutters. Since he’s trapped beneath the ceiling rubble, John can barely see Rodney from where he is sitting slumped against the dusty, ornate wall. The dim light also does nothing to illuminate the room or the situation, but John can see Rodney’s eyes flicker closed for a moment.

It’s a quiet moment, and one in which he has time to think something is really wrong. John feels a vague misapprehension and a hazy feeling of being out of control. He’s wondering what it all means when suddenly Rodney is awake and staring too intently into his eyes.

oOo

Rodney’s really not sure what the hell is happening, because one moment he was watching over Sheppard, and now he’s a passenger in his own body. He’s staring down at Sheppard and can feel an odd sort of smirk passing over his face, but he’s not the one doing it. There’s no way he would be taunting a so-obviously distressed Colonel Sheppard, but that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“Rodney? You…you okay?” Sheppard stutters the words out in halting puffs of air, and his eyes are turning dark and concerned.

Rodney wants to say, no, he absolutely isn’t okay, but instead he involuntarily shouts something unintelligible.

“Rodney?” Sheppard asks weakly, obviously working off his last reserves.

And that’s when Rodney feels an inexplicable upwelling of anger, but he’s completely helpless to do anything but act on it.

The fury is unreasonable because something is obviously wrong with Sheppard. That’s why he was acting so uncharacteristically before. Rodney figures that given the situation with the ceiling on his chest and all, Sheppard has every right to be a little cranky, so it’s okay the man acted so poorly, even though it was a painful display. But it’s not okay Rodney’s feeling as he is right now, because there’s definitely nothing wrong with him.

Nothing, that is, except that he apparently has absolutely no control over his own actions.

So when his hand snakes out and grabs a shard of colorful but sharp-edged tile, and when the same traitorous hand reaches toward one of Sheppard’s barely exposed hands and slices down, Rodney is screaming in his head.

Sheppard’s eyes widen with pain and dismay, and Rodney’s silent scream surges up through his throat and issues out from between his lips. But it’s not a scream that resounds through the tall and decorous room. To Rodney’s utter horror, it’s hideous laughter that drives hard from his throat.

“Rodney? Wha—” Sheppard asks, his breathing fast and panicked.

“Always have to be such a hotshot, don’t you, Sheppard?” Rodney hears himself snarl, and he has no idea where the words are coming from. All he’s aware of, all he’s keenly aware of, is that he’s completely powerless to stop whatever it is he’s currently doing.

Powerless to stop the repulsive words he says to one of the few friends he’s ever had. Powerless to stop from moving to Sheppard’s exposed right hand and bending three fingers back until they pop and break. Powerless to keep from grinning inanely when he hears Sheppard moan in pain, or to stop slicing down and drawing more blood from his other hand.

Rodney sees the blood well and hears the drip, drip, drip as red pearls patter onto the elaborately decorated floor. He’s horrified and wants to scream again, but what escapes him is more gleeful laughter.

“Rodney, please.” Sheppard’s pained words halt whatever it is that has taken over Rodney’s body, and he’s able to hold the shard of razor-sharp tile away from the bloody work he’s already accomplished. “Rodney…something’s wrong…w...with us,” the colonel says.

No shit, Rodney thinks. He’s not a religious man, but he suddenly wishes he was because then he’d seriously consider doing an exorcism on himself.

The distant pain that has been plaguing him a while practically skewers him now. He almost falls over from it, but he doesn’t mind it all too much because with its presence he’s able to pull the makeshift weapon in his hand away from Sheppard’s flesh. It takes him a moment to recover, but then he’s sitting up and making a voluntary move toward Sheppard’s face.

The colonel is looking the worse for wear, and for the first time, Rodney sees a faint shade of blue discoloring the skin around the injured man’s mouth.

“You all right, Colonel?” Rodney asks, and feels like he’s close to the edge of some precipice where sanity no longer exists.

“I…think something’s wrong,” John says, and passes out again.

As quiet yet important cascades of thought free themselves in Rodney’s mind, he finds he can’t agree more. He checks Sheppard’s increasingly weak pulse and can’t help but study his bloody handiwork. The cuts on the colonel’s hands are shallow, but they’re bleeding freely. And as Sheppard’s right hand starts to quickly swell around the broken fingers, something in Rodney begins to shatter with the thought of how much additional pain he’s just put his friend through.

Why do opulent buildings crack and fall, and why do trusted protectors abandon him during his work? Do injuries cause insanity or does insanity cause injuries? He’s not sure what is happening or what will happen, but he knows he’s a danger now to Sheppard. As dangerous as or more so than the injuries from which the man is currently suffering, and Rodney doesn’t really want to find out which is the case.

Instead, he opts to leave Sheppard as safe as he possibly can be in the current situation. Opts to leave in order to keep from doing more harm. Opts to leave, and begins to do so, but fails when the pain in his head returns, and he collapses to the cool, marbled floor.

He’s unconscious before his face smashes into the patina of dust coating the fancy surface, and he’s still unconscious and lying there when the Atlantis rescue team finds him some minutes later.

oOo

The all-too-familiar sounds and scents of the Atlantis infirmary surround Rodney as he wakes. When his eyes open and eventually clear, he’s shocked to see that practically every bed in the infirmary is occupied by an Atlantis inhabitant. Even Beckett is being checked out by one of his own nurses, and he doesn’t exactly look happy about the situation, despite the nurse’s broad and amused smile.

Carson glances over at Rodney and shuffles off the bed he’s been sitting on.

“I’m all right, lass,” the doctor says grumpily as he shrugs off the nurse, who is protesting his behavior.

The nurse looks less than satisfied but gives up the struggle anyway.

“How are you doing, Rodney?” Beckett asks as he settles beside McKay and begins monitoring his pulse. For the first time, Rodney notices there’s a bandage on the left side of the other man’s forehead, and his right eye is very obviously blackened.

“What the hell happened to you?” Rodney asks, ignoring Carson’s question. His voice sounds hoarse, and he wonders how long he’s been unconscious.

“Long story,” Carson says, and smiles self-consciously. “Let’s check you out, then I’ll explain as much as I know.”

At first, he doesn’t resist when Carson begins his exam. But then, as he looks around again at all the people lying in infirmary beds in various states of injury, Rodney pulls the shreds of his injured dignity together and acts accordingly for the first time since waking up.

“No, why don’t you tell me what the hell happened, right now?” he demands, pulling away from Beckett. “Because it looks like something really important is going on, and I have the idea you’re going to need my brain to help you out. Heaven knows there’s no one else in this galaxy who seems able to pull our asses out of trouble as well as I can. So why don’t you—”

The words die on his lips as they remind him of Sheppard’s earlier ruthless criticism, and Rodney searches desperately for any sign of the man. “Where’s Sheppard?” he asks, and feels the blood drain from his face when Beckett sighs heavily and pulls the stethoscope away.

“He’s going to be all right, Rodney. He was injured pretty badly in the fall, and it’s going to be some time before he’s able to move about.”

“Where is he? I want to see him,” Rodney insists, but there’s an especially familiar glint of warning in Carson’s eyes.

“You’ve just been through an ordeal, Rodney, and I need to check you out. Then give me a moment to explain what happened before you go barging in on the colonel. He’s fine for now, so you might as well let me have my way. And don’t give me any of your lip or else I’ll use the restraints.”

“You wouldn’t!” Rodney yells, offended.

“I would and you know it,” Carson says in return.

And Rodney does know it, so he surrenders, albeit reluctantly and with more than a little bit to say about it.

oOo

Elizabeth and Teyla find him a little while later, and they’re actually the ones who explain what happened.

“Nanobots.” Elizabeth says the word grimly, and Rodney feels both angry and scared at the same time.

“I’m really starting to hate those things,” he grumbles.

“Apparently, the late inhabitants of the planet you visited had a long-standing feud with the Ancients,” Elizabeth says with an understanding smile. “They developed nanotechnology that specifically targeted individuals with the Ancient gene. The nanobots play around with brain function, although Carson isn’t quite sure what exactly they were programmed to do.”

“Drive everyone around them nuts is my first guess,” Rodney says, considering how crazy Sheppard acted. But as he says the words, another thought niggles at him. He ignores it for the moment.

“I would have to agree, Rodney,” Teyla says with a calm smile. “Shortly after the rescue team entered the palace, personnel who possessed the Ancient gene began acting strangely. It was a struggle to regain control, as they had become quite violent. Luckily, Doctor Zelenka was on the team as well, and he quickly determined the cause of the strange behavior.”

“Great, now I suppose I’ll never hear the end of how he saved my life,” Rodney says, groaning. “Please tell me you zapped us with an EMP, and I don’t have crazy robot bugs floating around in my brain anymore.”

“They were never in your brain, Rodney,” Carson says, stepping up behind the two women. “They were just in your bloodstream wreaking havoc on brain function through biochemical manipulation. Chances are the people who designed the technology never found a way to directly cross the blood-brain barrier, so this was the next best answer. Good thing, though, because having a bunch of dead robots in your brain isn’t exactly healthy. The ones remaining in your bloodstream will eventually be excreted from your body, and I don’t foresee them causing any further damage.”

“Nice shiner you’ve got there, Carson,” Rodney says with a smirk. He can’t help himself. Carson’s acting way too chipper.

“Yes, well, um, I was affected, too,” Carson says awkwardly, and Rodney’s pleased to see the doctor’s too-bright expression dim a bit.

The niggling thought from before turns into an almost-memory of blood and sharp ceramic, and Rodney is suddenly worried about Sheppard again. “Where’s the colonel? Can I see him now that you’ve all had your way with me?” Rodney asks. He’s trying to sound snarky and offhanded, but the attempt falls flat when he hears the anxiety in his voice swelling.

“Rodney, about the colonel—” Carson begins, obviously upset, but he’s interrupted by Elizabeth.

“Why don’t you both go check on Ronon and let me talk to Rodney alone for a while?” she asks Teyla and Carson, but it’s obvious to them all her words are more command than suggestion.

Teyla bows her head in graceful assent, and, although Carson looks as if he’s about to argue, he eventually leaves after a pointed look from Elizabeth.

“What’s the matter with him?” Rodney asks once the two of them are as alone as they are going to be in the crowded infirmary.

“Rodney, when we found Colonel Sheppard, he was seriously injured. He had several broken ribs, a fractured sternum, and a slight concussion, all which were most likely caused by the fall. But in addition to these injuries, he had numerous shallow stab wounds as well as three broken fingers,” Elizabeth says evenly, then adds, “Obviously, Carson can’t be sure these minor injuries weren’t also caused by the fall. But they were located relatively far from the other injuries on the Colonel’s body, and given the situation with the nanobots as well as the state in which the search team found you, well, there’s some question as to how those injuries were actually sustained.”

Elizabeth’s voice drifts off, and Rodney is left with an unclear feeling of foreboding. “What? What are you saying?” he asks in a tone of voice that sounds irritated but that actually stems from growing apprehension.

Elizabeth says nothing, but the strong and even gaze that she shares with Rodney is enough for comprehension to fully wend its way into his consciousness.

A rush of sudden shame forces Rodney to close his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Elizabeth anymore. “I hurt him,” he whispers the words, and almost can’t believe he’s saying them. And yet, as he speaks of unimaginable betrayal, his unclear memories begin to focus. His hands tingle with the vague sensation of something cool and slick and razor-sharp pressed against resisting flesh, a shard of something that is at once innocuous and dangerous, and which is held tightly within his shaking grasp. He recollects a surge of anger that rivals lunacy and shudders in reaction.

“It looks as if that’s what happened, yes,” Elizabeth says. She puts a soothing hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off.

“I hurt him,” Rodney says again, this time even softer. He doesn’t want to believe what he’s saying, but awful memories and the honesty of Elizabeth’s words are making it hard for him to ignore the truth.

“Rodney, it wasn’t your fault. John understands, I’m sure--” Elizabeth says. She tries to offer comfort again, but Rodney won’t allow it.

Instead, he turns his back to her and shrinks away from her touch. “Tell it to someone who didn’t just hurt their best friend,” Rodney says and presses his eyes closed.

oOo

Rodney’s still feeling a little weak and dizzy when Carson says he can visit Sheppard, so he’s forced to sit in a wheelchair that is subsequently pushed by a kind-looking nurse. Of all those infected with this newest nanotechnology, only he seems to be affected by residual weakness, and Beckett thinks that has something to do with the length of time the ‘bots were in his bloodstream. More than likely, Carson hypothesizes, Rodney’s immune system started defending his body, and that’s causing him to feel flu-like aches and fatigue.

Rodney doesn’t really give a shit about explanations. He just wants to see his friend.

His chair is pushed to the farthest edge of the infirmary and around a set of curtains, behind which Sheppard is lying deathly still on a bed. Rodney is so shocked by the man’s appearance that he doesn’t even notice when the nurse pats his arm and leaves.

In addition to the expected tubes and needles inserted into Sheppard’s skin, he also has an oxygen mask firmly settled on his face. He looks too thin and drawn, and there are lines of pain around his mouth and closed eyes that make Rodney nervous. His breathing is shallow and unsteady, but the oxygen is helping, and he’s going to be fine. At least, that’s what Beckett keeps telling Rodney.

Pneumonia has begun to settle in the colonel’s lungs, but Carson has the sick man pumped so full of antibiotics now that he’s probably going to be nauseated for weeks. The doctor’s hopeful the heavy doses of medication will keep the bacteria at bay.

Rodney looks to where Sheppard’s hands are lying under the blanket, and knows the fingers on the right one are splinted. Memory flashes of healthy digits that shift and burst in his hand as he pulls and pulls and pulls, has Rodney practically gagging.

Sheppard coughs hard, and although the sound is muffled by the oxygen mask, there is no doubt it’s terribly painful. His eyes press even more tightly shut, and then the man struggles to sit up. Without thinking, Rodney stands and is at his side, helping him into a position more conducive to coughing up a lung.

Sheppard calms, and Rodney stands back. John wipes his bandaged left hand over his face, and Rodney remembers the blood he made well up there. Suddenly, he is extremely fatigued and wants to sit down.

“Th…thanks,” Sheppard says before Rodney can return to his wheelchair. The man opens his eyes, and Rodney wants to weep when he sees his friend cringe at his presence. The motion is brief, and Sheppard recovers quickly, but it hurts.

Defeated, Rodney stumbles to the wheelchair and almost turns it over in his haste to sit down.

“Rodney, hey,” Sheppard says, and his voice is just a whisper of breath barely audible from beneath the oxygen mask.

Rodney sits in the wheelchair and quietly panics over what to say. He can’t seem to meet Sheppard’s gaze and, instead, with the same intensity with which he would study warp engines, examines the not-quite-red fabric of the infirmary scrubs he’s wearing.

“Rodney, hey,” Sheppard repeats, and Rodney can practically hear concern oozing out of the man’s pores. “Rodney, it’s—”

“Don’t you dare say it’s okay,” Rodney says harshly. “Because it’s not. It’s not okay. How can you say it’s okay when I hurt you?”

“Rodney—”

“I hurt you, Sheppard. I cut up your hands, and when that wasn’t enough, I broke your fingers. How in the hell can you even suggest that’s okay?!” Rodney is yelling, and somehow he ends up standing again. Somewhere in the unimportant distance, there’s a flurry of nervous activity. Sheppard makes a weak placating motion with his bandaged hand to someone who’s apparently peeking around the screen, then pulls the oxygen mask to the side of his face so he can talk clearly.

“You weren’t the only one affected, Rodney. Don’t forget that. And maybe I don’t have a clear memory of what happened, but I remember enough to know I had no control over what I was doing or saying,” Sheppard says in a breathy whisper. He fiercely clenches his jaw as he seems to struggle with what he wants to say next. “And just be happy I was trapped under a ceiling, because I have the feeling that if I would’ve been let loose, I would have done more to you than bleed you a little.” The words are blurted out, and Rodney is temporarily shocked into silence.

After a while, when he finds his voice again, it’s high-pitched and shaky. “Really?”

“Yes, Rodney. Really,” Sheppard says. John closes his eyes, and Rodney watches him try to draw in deeper breaths. Hesitantly, he reaches over and gently replaces the mask over Sheppard’s face. Sheppard opens his eyes and looks at Rodney with gratitude.

“What else do you remember?” Rodney asks. “I-I mean, it’s just that I don’t remember much. Just being angry with you.”

“Same thing,” Sheppard says, and his voice sounds strange coming from beneath the mask. “I think I may have said some…things, too. You know? To you. I just remember wanting to hurt you, and when I couldn’t get free from the debris, I think I might have said some…stuff.”

Rodney remembers the pain of Sheppard’s fevered accusations and still can’t manage to get over it despite knowing the words were caused by crazy miniature robots rooting around in his friend’s brain.

“It wasn’t important,” he says around a dry mouth.

Sheppard doesn’t look as though he believes him. “I’m sorry,” he says, appearing exhausted. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, McKay.”

Rodney wants to deny that Sheppard actually did hurt him. It’s an old defense mechanism, and he struggles against it for a moment before saying, “Yeah. I’m sorry, too.”

Sheppard looks uncomfortable, not just physically but with the conversation, as well. Talk stalls as they find themselves stuck in the quagmire of an awkward moment.

“Listen, Rodney, can we just do the manly thing and agree the whole situation was fucked up and go along as if nothing really happened?” Sheppard asks, breaking the ringing silence. Rodney is grateful for the return of words as well as for the suggestion that offers them both an easy out.

“Yeah, yeah. Sounds good to me,” he says eagerly. “I mean, you’re right, nothing really did happen. Well, actually, we really didn’t do anything, at least not to each other. I mean, the nanobots, well, I say we blame it all on them.”

“Damn nanobots,” Sheppard says, and looks decidedly more relaxed. “I’m really starting to hate those things.”

“That’s exactly what I said when I found out about them,” Rodney says.

“Hey, did they cause the glitch in the Ancient technology, too?” Sheppard asks, abruptly tense again. “I mean, what if those damn things contaminated the equipment we brought back? Couldn’t that be a problem?”

“They didn’t cause the issues with the technology,” Rodney says, shaking his head. He’s pleased to see Sheppard relax a bit. “The problems were caused by a signal emanating from somewhere in the palace. If the inhabitants of the planet were in a long-standing cold war with the Ancients, it would be reasonable to think they were just paranoid enough to want to screw around with any Ancient technology that was ‘misplaced’ by visiting Ancient diplomats. You know, bugs and all that other spy stuff. The signal was easily counteracted. Well, at least it was for me since, you know, I’m a genius and all.”

His offhanded comment brings back Sheppard’s hateful words before Rodney remembers they’ve agreed to do the “manly” thing. He makes a concerted attempt to brush off his discomfort.

“You remember that? The problem with the technology?” he asks, hoping to hide his embarrassment. Sheppard is shrewdly looking at him; Rodney’s discomfiture has not been missed. “It’s just that I wouldn’t have expected you to remember that, what with you acting weird practically from the moment we stepped out of the gate.”

“I didn’t remember, but Carson mentioned the tech problems to me. He also said I was the most affected by the nanobots because my Ancient gene is the strongest,” John says with typical snark and a mischievous waggle of his eyebrows.

“Yeah, well, my brain’s stronger than yours,” Rodney says, automatically responding to the invitation for comfortable banter.

“One word, Rodney. Mensa,” Sheppard says with another eyebrow waggle.

“Meaningless. Just because you passed a Mensa test doesn’t mean that your brain can take on mine. C’mon. Let’s try it. Let’s do it. My brain will have your brain crying for its momma within minutes. No, seconds. That’s right! In seconds, it’ll be begging for mercy!”

Sheppard laughs, then coughs. After he’s able to catch his breath again, he leans back looking weary but happy.

“I’d better go. Gotta rest up for the big brain battle. I’m in training, you know,” Rodney says.

Sheppard is fast becoming too exhausted to maintain his end of the conversation. “Okay. See you later, Rodney,” he says, then chuckles and coughs again.

Rodney turns the wheelchair around and is almost out from behind the curtains when Sheppard clears his throat and speaks.

“Rodney, if I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be on my team,” he says solemnly to McKay’s back.

Rodney’s head involuntarily ducks as he feels true relief and forgiveness wash over him. “I wouldn’t be on your team if I didn’t trust you either, Colonel,” he replies, without turning. He hears Sheppard draw in a shaky but comforted breath, then smiles as he returns to the bustle of the crowded infirmary.

Stargate Atlantis Fic

Sun, 02 Nov 2008 20:21:15 GMT

This story was originally in the zine, Jumper One, published by Agent With Style in May of 2007. Brate and K Hanna Korossy organized the whole thing, and I have to say they both did a wonderful job introducing me to the world of zines! Thanks a lot to both of you! Emrys

Title: Closing Two Eyes
Author: Emrys
Spoiler Alerts: Anything through Season Three is fair game, but this story specifically mentions events that took place in the episode "Trinity".
Category: Gen/hurt/comfort/friendship
Pairing: N/A
Summary: Sheppard falls through a floor, and then the fun really starts!
Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis doesn't belong to me, and I'm not receiving any monetary benefits from this story. The series belongs to MGM and Sci-Fi and a lot of other people much more interesting than me!

Closing Two Eyes

Emrys

‘To find a friend one must close one eye; to keep him, two.’ ~~Norman Douglas

When John comes back to himself, all he knows for a little too long is the pressure that lies along the entire surface of his chest. It’s close to pain but not quite, and, really, the worst part of the whole situation is that he can neither move nor catch his breath.

He opens his eyes, and the world is tilted and whirled, and he has to concentrate in order to bring it back into focus. When he does, he is confronted with an image that doesn’t quite make sense until he realizes he’s lying flat on his back. The multiple arches that are in his line of view are part of the ceiling, and the darkness up there bordered by broken tiles is actually the hole through which he fell.

He doesn’t quite remember the fall, just the initial, sudden loss of anything solid beneath his feet and then the vague sensation of air floating by his face. But between that hazy memory and the evidence that lies around him, the only conclusion he can come to is that he actually did fall through the floor of the upper level. And now he’s lying on his back as the occasional tile plummets and shatters on the floor around him. Dust motes float in the barely illuminated air, and he coughs when his restricted lungs finally decide to complain about the grime he’s breathing into them.

He tries to move again, and now the pain decides to reveal itself. It’s primarily screaming in his chest, and suddenly he really needs to stop coughing. But that’s not working because his lungs are still pretty pissed at him, and before he can figure out why he’s in so much pain, black spots are replacing the image of the ornately gilded yet broken ceiling, and suddenly he’s going away from himself again.

oOo

Rodney’s more than a little irritated when he turns around and realizes Sheppard has wandered away from him. In fact, he’s getting on to pretty goddamn furious when he starts calling and there’s no hide nor freaky, spiky hair of the colonel anywhere in the general vicinity. And he’s pretty justified in his fury since he’s been left all alone in the western wing of the creepy, albeit beautiful, palace. It’s creepy because it’s dark and empty, but it’s beautiful because someone put a lot of effort into making it so. Even Rodney is enough of an aesthete to recognize the splendor of the palace. In fact, before Sheppard had gotten himself missing, Rodney was wondering if the Taj Mahal—which he has never actually visited but still knows enough about to have an opinion—would cower in or rival the glory of this structure.

But right now, he’s finished appreciating the splendor of the arched architecture, mosaic floors, and calligraphy-inscribed walls. Right now he’s pissed, because Colonel Pain-in-the-Ass, who has been just that throughout this entire mission, has suddenly drifted off somewhere. And now Rodney’s left all by himself, and he’s not only going to have to protect himself from whatever is lurking in the numerous dark corners, but he’s also going to have to find the wayward colonel.

And, although he’s not willing to admit it to himself, there is a small part of him that’s really freaking out, because Sheppard has been acting weird since they exited the stargate. And as angry as Rodney is, the suspicions of that small part of him are being confirmed right now, because there is no fucking way a hale and healthy Sheppard would ever let Rodney out of his sight.

And yet here Rodney is, left to his own limited physical defenses, and so something sure as hell is really wrong.

Suddenly, his radio squawks, then the welcome sound of Teyla’s voice floats into his ear.

“Colonel Sheppard? Rodney? Can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you,” Rodney snaps into his radio. There’s a strange scratching noise emanating from somewhere in the room, and as his heart rate quickens, he squints into the gloom in an attempt to quickly discern what could be the cause of the sound.

“I am sorry, Rodney, but I have been trying to contact you for some time and have been unsuccessful in doing so until now. Are you all right?” There is more than a little concern in Teyla’s radio-transmitted voice, and it momentarily distracts Rodney from the creepy sound that had been made by something in the equally creepy room.

“Huh, maybe the signal that’s screwing up the Ancient technology is beginning to affect our instruments as well,” Rodney mutters into his headset.

He stumbles closer to where he thinks the eerie sound had come from and sees that a shutter is open on one of the highest windows in the room. While he watches it, the shutter slides across the wall and makes the same scritch-scratching sound he heard before. He wipes his hand across his sweat-lined forehead and revels in the palpable relief he feels.

“I’m fine, Teyla. It’s just, the colonel has wandered off. I was about to go look for him,” Rodney says, and is pleased when he keeps the quaver out of his voice.

“That is very unlike Colonel Sheppard. Is something wrong with him?” Teyla asks, and Rodney can almost hear her eyebrows knitting together.

“My thoughts exactly,” he replies and then turns on the life-signs detector. No time like the present to begin seeking out the colonel.

“Be careful, Rodney. Sections of the building are unsound,” Teyla warns, and there’s obvious exertion in her voice.

“Why? What’s wrong? What’s happened now?” he asks in a staccato burst, and risks a look at the life-signs detector. There’s a faint signal, but Rodney pauses before following it.

“As I said, some areas of the palace are unstable,” Teyla answers. “Ronon fell through a staircase and is injured. I think it wise to return him to Atlantis.”

“Injured?! Injured how?” Rodney asks, suddenly afraid to move.

“I believe he has broken his arm. He is also bleeding badly from a deep cut on his leg,” Teyla reports. As Rodney pictures her supporting an injured Ronon, the effort in her tone suddenly makes sense.

“Huh. Bet the big guy’s happy about that,” he comments absently. He is rewarded with Ronon’s irate growl in his ear that clearly conveys just how unhappy the Satedan is with the situation.

“Is the colonel far from where you are located now?” Teyla asks.

“Not far,” Rodney confirms. “Listen, there aren’t people or Wraith or any other weird forms of life here. Just a lot of dust and fancy architecture. You bring Ronon to the gate since you’re closer to it than you are to me. I’ll find the colonel and meet you there.” Rodney is trying to sound cavalier, but since he’s literally shaking in his boots, he’s not quite sure how well he’s pulling it off.

There’s a pause before Teyla answers with obvious displeasure. “Are you sure that this is a good idea, Rodney? Something is not right about this place, and the colonel was acting strangely before. I am worried.”

At this point, Rodney is far past worried, but they really don’t have too much of a choice. It’s either go in search of the colonel or leave him behind, and since the thought of leaving Sheppard behind makes McKay slightly nauseated, his only real option is to become a one-man search party.

“Of course I’m not sure! This place is seriously creeping me out, but when have we ever had the chance to follow the good ideas?” he asks with more than a little sarcasm lacing his tone. “Teyla, I don’t really have a choice. I can’t leave him behind, and we both know you won’t leave Ronon behind.”

“I’ll be fine! Leave me here!” Ronon grumbles into his radio, and it’s not difficult to hear the pain in the big warrior’s tone.

“That’s right, you giant hairball! Play the hero!” Rodney yells into his own radio, suddenly feeling even angrier with the situation than he was before. “Then we’ll all be separated. One missing team member is enough. Don’t listen to him, Teyla, I’ll be fine. I’ve got a strong life sign for Sheppard, and I’ll make sure to duck when I find him just in case he’s acting ‘strange’ enough to take a swing at me.”

Ronon begins to protest, but his voice is becoming increasingly weak. Rodney carefully walks forward, following the colonel’s life sign. There’s no sign of an unstable structure beneath his feet, so he continues on into a broad hallway that is lined on both sides by intricately carved marble walls.

“Just be careful, Rodney. We’ll meet you both at the gate.”

“Yes, yes, of course you will,” Rodney mutters, his thoughts already sidetracked by his need to find Sheppard. “See you later.”

After that, it’s quiet for some time until Rodney tries to contact John via radio. No answer is returned other than the echo of his own voice as it bounces from one tall marble wall to another.

“What the hell?” he asks out loud as he notices that the colonel’s signature is one floor beneath him.

One floor beneath him and completely not where it’s supposed to be. Rodney can’t seem to shake off another surge of anger Although it’s true the colonel displayed uncharacteristic irritation toward his team members within minutes of exiting the stargate, putting so much distance between himself and Rodney is way too far past the point of acceptable, bordering on absolutely insane behavior.

Despite the intensity of his fury, Rodney cautiously continues onward to find the source of the life sign and of his anger.

The mission began as a standard recon job, and Sheppard showed typical eagerness to begin a new adventure. But not a quarter of an hour after leaving Atlantis, he started treating his teammates like pariahs and acting almost as if he were trying to escape their company. In fact, Sheppard was the one to suggest they split up to search the palace, despite the fact they knew very little about the place. And when even Teyla hinted such a course of action could prove dangerous, Sheppard immediately became disproportionately angry. He ordered the separation, and Rodney, none-to-happy with the turn of events, was forced to follow the colonel through the eastern wing of the palace.

McKay wasn’t entirely pleased to be left alone with the irate colonel and was prepared to tell him just that when he noticed his Ancient equipment beginning to falter. He became distracted by the simple technical glitch and consequently fixed it with minimum effort. But apparently taking his attention away from Sheppard was a mistake, because when he looked up from his repair work, he found the colonel gone.

And now, said colonel is a floor beneath him, and Rodney is royally pissed.

He assuages his anger by vowing not to miss the opportunity to tell Sheppard exactly what he thinks of him this time around.

oOo

When John wakes up again, he’s midway to coughing up another lungful of pain and dust. The light is different, darker and yet brighter at the same time. The ceiling is now just a shadowed impression of mosaic arches, and the broken spot isn’t really discernible from the rest of it. Yet a flash of blue-white light crosses over it in abrupt beams of clarity, and he thinks maybe something is going seriously wrong with his vision.

John closes his eyes again in an attempt to clear them and tries to draw a deep breath. A stab of pain along his sternum makes the effort useless, so instead he concentrates on taking shallow breaths and maybe moving an arm or a leg or, hell, maybe just a big toe.

As he’s feeling relief for being able to wriggle his right foot a little bit, a strange squawking noise begins, sounding as if it’s coming from very far away. His brow wrinkles in confusion, and he tries again to open his eyes and make sense of his surroundings.

The splash of brightness still staggers its way across the ceiling, and its source slowly becomes visible.

It’s a flashlight that is shaking wildly in the hands of Rodney McKay, and John’s suddenly so relieved, he verges on passing out again. He resolutely forces back the shadows that threaten to spill over him and concentrates on his breathing. It’s still painful to draw breath, but he does it anyway, and soon he’s able to focus a little better on the physicist.

Rodney is stumbling his way toward him, and he’s yelling into the radio at the same time. John can’t understand what the man is saying, but McKay is obviously pissed. Not just a little pissed, but mightily pissed. There’s fear in Rodney’s eyes and a grim set to his jaw; whatever has the physicist pissed off is actually important and not something minor. Because, although it’s true that practically anything can set McKay off, it’s only when he’s mentally calculating odds of survival that he gets such a panicked look in his eyes.

Rodney trips, and then, bringing with him an upwelling of disturbed dust, he’s at John’s side. John tries to smile but coughs instead. In response, Rodney starts yelling louder into his radio, but everything still sounds blurry and so far away to John.

But when Rodney begins pulling and straining at something that is somewhere in the vicinity of John’s torso, things clear right the hell up. John can’t immediately see what McKay is struggling with, but whatever it is causes more pain to burst in his chest. This latest torture is simultaneously crushing and suffocating him, and he wants to jerk up and away from it but can’t. Instead he yelps, and as adrenaline courses through his body along with the agonizing sensations, the world is suddenly crystal clear.

As the pain intensifies, he wishes for the return of the foggy feeling of before. When his breath begins to stutter, he thinks his wish is actually going to be granted. But then he hears Rodney swear loudly, and suddenly the pain diminishes and John can breathe again. He takes in a few shaky breaths and closes his eyes as a tight ball of nausea begins to build in his gut.

He’s almost unconscious when Rodney grabs his hand and jolts him back into his new, pain-filled reality.

“What the hell is the matter with you?!” Rodney is yelling very loudly into his face. “Why the hell would you leave me alone in that creepy room?! Even twelve-year-olds at camp know you never leave your goddamn buddy!”

Things continue on in that vein for some time, and John lets Rodney blow off a little steam. But after too long, he feels himself getting irritated and strikes back. “I didn’t…leave you alone,” he gasps out, and talking is harder than he expected. But the words need to be said because, although he actually really can’t remember what the hell happened, he would never leave Rodney on his own. Never. Ever. It just isn’t something he’s physically capable of doing.

“I hate to disagree, but that’s exactly what you did!” Rodney’s yell is scathing, but Sheppard recognizes the look of hurt behind the other man’s eyes. Whatever actually did happen, Rodney’s upset, and it’s no use arguing with him right now.

“I can’t move,” John says, because it’s the only thing he can think to say that’s more important than addressing the fact he may or may not have broken a cardinal rule and abandoned Rodney.

“Of course you can’t move! You fell through the floor and now you’ve got a significant portion of it sitting on your chest.”

“Well then…get me…out of here,” John insists after he’s had a moment to process Rodney’s words. He twists his neck painfully and for the first time is able to glance down at himself. Rodney’s right. There’s a lot of debris on and around him, but what’s really alarming is the size of the floor beam and masonry currently pressing down on his torso. There’s no way Rodney is going to be able to move it on his own. “Oh,” he says after a moment, and he moves his head to look grimly at his companion.

“Yeah. Oh,” Rodney replies wearily, then settles on the floor beside John. “I tried to move that beam but couldn’t lift it. And then some of the other junk began shifting and that seemed to hurt you. I didn’t want to make things worse,” he explains, pointing to the monstrous object that has John effectively pinned.

John suddenly understands where the crushing pain from before originated. McKay brushes some of the dust and grime away from John’s face, and John is suddenly so thankful for the human contact that he’s willing to concede the argument about who left whom.

“You and Ronon appear to share similar abilities when it comes to falling through floors,” Rodney comments grimly, then, spurred on by Sheppard’s alarmed expression, adds, “Don’t worry, he’s going to be fine. Teyla’s taking him back to the gate, and as soon as she can make contact with Atlantis, she’ll tell Elizabeth we need an engineering team here to get you out. But Teyla and Ronon weren’t close to the planet’s gate when I talked to her, so it’s going to be a little while. Feel up to some quality time?”

John snorts an abrupt laugh, and his breath catches in his chest as the pain flares again.

“What? What, what, what? What’s the matter with you?” Rodney’s in a sudden panic, and as much as Sheppard would like to reassure him, he’s incapable of doing so. The pain is just so bad, and it’s taken his breath away. The black spots come back into view and begin waltzing about, but he forces himself to calm down and somehow manages to keep hold of consciousness. After a while, he’s able to take a few cautious breaths, and he lies still and allows himself to benefit from the respite.

The squawking is back, and he blearily looks over to see Rodney furiously pacing and yelling into his radio headset again. After a moment, a wave of words flows over John. Rodney is talking to Teyla, and he’s freaking out. It takes John another moment to realize Rodney’s freaking out about him, and it’s more than a little while before he’s able to find the right words to end the drama that is Rodney McKay in full-out terror mode.

“Rodney…calm down. ‘M al…all right.”

It’s just the barest of whispers, but Rodney pauses in mid-rant and kneels by John’s side again.

“Something’s wrong with his breathing,” Rodney says slowly, and John is confused until he realizes McKay is reporting his condition to Teyla via the radio. “It may have something to do with the fact that half the ceiling is currently sitting on his chest, but I’m just hypothesizing here,” he adds sarcastically, obviously in response to something the Athosian asked and which he deems a stupid question.

“She…needs to understand…th—” Sheppard tries to defend Teyla, who, if he remembers correctly, has her own set of problems, but then he runs out of words when he runs out of breath again.

“I know, I know, I know. I’m sorry, Teyla,” Rodney says, and John doesn’t know if the apology is in response to something Teyla has said or to John’s mucked-up defense of her. “It’s just, well, he’s really bad. You need to hurry.”

John’s breath stutters, and Rodney’s attention switches back to him.

“They’re coming. You just need to hang on for a little while. Keep breathing, you know? Don’t die.”

John wants to laugh because Rodney’s being pretty damn funny right now, but instead he conserves the breath and draws it into his lungs. All the air he’s pulling in seems stale and too hard-won.

His eyes draw closed. John just wants to sleep, rest, recharge his nearly drained batteries, but Rodney absolutely refuses to let that happen.

“Hey! Oh, no, no, no, no. You need to stay awake, colonel. C’mon. Wakey, wakey,” Rodney says, and John feels a hand patting his face. Rodney is being as gentle as he possibly can given how god-awful graceless he is, but it feels like someone is sucker-punching him.

“Cut it out,” John rasps. He’d like to push Rodney’s hand away, but it seems as if his arm is pinned beneath the rubble that has the rest of his body trapped. Just to reassure himself, he tries to move his right foot again and is inordinately relieved when it still responds.

“Then open your eyes, Colonel,” Rodney says and pats John’s face again.

“Rodney!” John says in an annoyed tone, but he opens his eyes just like he’s been asked. As soon as he does, he wishes Rodney would let him close them again, because his head abruptly starts pounding.

“Do you have any pets, Sheppard?” Rodney asks.

John is disoriented enough that the non sequitur doesn’t really bother him all too much. “Dog. Had…a dog when I was…a kid,” he mutters and really wishes he could shift just a little bit so the damn floor beneath his ass could press uncomfortably on other parts of his body for a while.

“I have a cat. Well, I had a cat. I gave it to my neighbor the day before I left for Atlantis. I think my neighbor liked the cat more than me,” Rodney says wistfully. “I mean, it wouldn’t be a big deal except that I think my cat liked my neighbor more than me, too.”

He feels bad for Rodney all of a sudden, but at the same time can’t help wanting to laugh. Somehow it figures that Rodney cares more about how a cat feels about him than how another human being does.

“Got any family?” Rodney asks, then seems to consider his own question. “It’s funny, after all this time, I still don’t know the answer to that question.”

John remembers talking to Teyla on the Daedelus about family. Remembers how, almost as an afterthought, he added Rodney to his list of family members. He wasn’t sure why he almost excluded the physicist, but leaving McKay out would have been unfair. And if John was really truthful with himself, he’d have to say he’s really glad Rodney’s with him right now.

Glad, but also a little confused Rodney doesn’t know the answer to the question he just asked because he never thought to ask it before. Not that John ever minded. He enjoys his privacy, and it’s one of the reasons why he and McKay actually get along. Rodney typically doesn’t give a damn about people’s personal lives, and that has always suited John fine. So why ask this now?

“Rodney? Is this your…way of keeping…me conscious?” he asks when he’s hit with sudden insight.

“Well, actually, yeah. How’s it working?” Rodney asks sheepishly.

“You want to…keep me alert…you…need to ask more…interestin’ questions,” John says, gasping on the words.

“Well, forgive me, Colonel. I’ve never really been good at the whole conversation thing,” Rodney says peevishly.

“Didn’t mean to…insult you…McKay,” John says and blinks way too slowly. He’s on the verge of falling asleep when Rodney pats his face yet again.

“God…damn it, Rodney!”

“Then stay awake,” McKay says tersely, then snaps his fingers nervously and adds, “Ask me something.”

“Wha’?” John asks, suddenly more confused than when he first woke up with half the ceiling on his chest.

“If you’re so keen on discussing interesting questions, then I think it’s up to you to ask me one,” Rodney explains with a look of triumph.

For some reason he can’t quite explain, John suddenly wants to smack the look off Rodney’s face. He doesn’t know where the anger has come from, but he supposes he’s lucky his arms are pinned down because he’s just angry enough to act on the impulse given half a chance.

But since he can’t raise either arm, he pushes back the disorienting anger as well as he can and does as Rodney suggests.

“Ever…been arrested?”

The jubilant expression leaves Rodney’s face, and he looks dumbstruck instead. John feels a thrill of pleasure at having caught the man off guard, but it lasts only for a second. Because then Rodney’s looking cynical.

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, on one occasion I was arrested after carousing around in a stolen car. The whole time I was intoxicated on bootleg liquor that I bought from a one-legged prostitute. Canadian Mounties caught me. I never knew those damn horses could run so fast,” he says sarcastically, then changes his tune. “Of course I’ve never been arrested! I mean, not really. There was that one science project that brought the authorities out to my elementary school, but I was never arrested. I mean, what the hell do I do? Nothing, that’s what!”

John wants to assure Rodney that the physicist has done plenty of things most people would classify as being anything but “nothing”—the least of those being his school project—but the ache in his head becomes a stabbing pain before he’s able to tell McKay as much. And then John’s talking, but he isn’t exactly in charge of what he’s saying. It’s odd and confusing, and he doesn’t know what’s going on or why he’s saying the words he is.

“You blew up a solar system,” he says in a helpful tone that has him screaming on the inside because he doesn’t want to bring up that whole situation. Talking about Rodney’s mishandling of the Ancient weapon is unconscionable now, when the man is one step away from outright hysteria and needs to know John trusts him.

So why in the hell is he mentioning it? And why can’t he control his own voice? And just how injured is he, anyway?

“Well, I should have expected you to bring that up again,” Rodney says, huffing. “Seriously, could you please give me some indication as to when you’re going to stop hanging that particular incident over my head, because the constant reminder of it is getting tedious.”

He hasn’t mentioned the incident with Rodney’s ego and the Ancient weapon since it happened all those months ago; Rodney is as touchy about this subject as John imagined he would be. But suddenly, John doesn’t think he can keep hold of his hard-earned prize of consciousness. Discomfort starts in the pit of his stomach where nausea begins to roil again, then it completely and effectively assaults him by highlighting the pain in his head. A moan slips out involuntarily from between his lips, but he doesn’t hear it. All he hears is Rodney’s continued litany of words, then a rushing sound that makes him dizzy. He falls and welcomes the insensate numbness.

On to Chapter Two:
http://emrys777.livejournal.com/5949.html#cutid1

Story 3C of the Abaddon Series

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 02:24:21 GMT

Title: What Ruby Doesn't Know (Part I): Keeping Secrets
Author: Emrys
Spoiler Alerts: "NRFTW" and "Croatoan" But anything from the beginning of the series is fair game.
Category: Gen
Pairing: N/A
Summary: This is the continuation of my "The Abaddon Series." This one is in Sam's point of view.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the television program Supernatural. That all belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke, and whole bunch of other people who are lucky enough to be involved with this show. I’m not receiving any sort of revenue for this fic.

Sam stalks the neighborhood which is painted less dingy than usual by pale moonlight. He moves like a dangerous creature, edgy and canny and something to stay away from. And whether consciously or unconsciously, that’s just what the others on the streets do. They steer clear from the danger and give him wide berth.

As he hunts, Sam obsesses over what he’s found out in the last three days.

The initial call from Doctor Lee was good. Not perfect, but good. Hopeful. She had known what to look for and hadn’t found it when she looked. No sign of sulfur. That had been good news, and Sam, on the other end of a long phone line, had breathed deeply when she told him her findings.

“But the patient’s lymphocyte levels are on the elevated side of normal,” Doc had said next. “It could be the beginning of a straightforward infection, but I’d like to culture the blood just to make sure it’s nothing more. It’ll only take a few days.”

Knowing full well of Dean’s physically weakened condition, Sam wouldn’t have been surprised if his brother harbored a simple bacteria or virus. But that knowledge didn’t keep his heart from skipping a beat when the doctor made her suggestion.

“If any other person in the world had asked me to do this, I wouldn’t even consider performing a culture. The sample is clean, and the lymphocyte levels aren’t really all that high. Like I said, they’re within normal range,” Doc had said. She’d spoken hushed and hurried, and Sam had realized she was nervous. “But it’s you doing the asking, Sam. Obviously you believe something could be wrong, and after what happened in Rivergrove I just think—”

Sam had had to shove aside the growing lump of unease crawling in his throat before he’d been able to say, “No, you’re right. It’s right to be thorough.”

There had been quiet on the other end of the line. Sam had heard the doctor’s fast breathing, but hadn’t known what to say next to end the growing tension.

He’d just about decided to give up and simply say good-bye, when Doctor Lee whispered, “Sam, is this your brother’s blood?”

And that question, that had been the one Sam hadn’t been willing to answer.

“Just call me when you get the results of the blood culture,” Sam had said in response, forcing calm into his tone.

Then he’d hung up and waited.

Bobby had returned that evening, still looking grim and unhappy with Sam’s decisions. He’d opened his mouth to complain, taken one look at Sam’s face, and then given up. Sam hasn’t heard one word of dissent from him since.

Then, just an hour or so ago, the Doc called again.

This time the news wasn’t good. Not good at all.

Sam doesn’t clearly remember the second conversation he had with Doctor Lee. He’s only able to recall bits of it like, ‘strange bacterium,’ and, ‘definitely sulfur,’ and, ‘slow to culture but potentially virulent.’ He remembers her saying ‘it’s not the same as Rivergrove,’ and, ‘I can’t begin to speculate,’ and, ‘I’m so sorry, Sam.’

What he distinctly doesn’t remember her saying is, ‘everything’s going to be fine.’

But then again, Sam thinks to himself, he never really ever believed that in the first place.

He stalks, prowls, hunts for them now, those three demons who brought this agony to his attention. He’s not quite sure what he’ll do when he finds them. His initial inclination is to torture them for answers and then send them back where they came from. Yet the guilt that such actions would bring can’t be overstated.

He wants to be tormenter and judgment, but it’s just not in his nature. Not really. Even his previous actions with Nybbas had had a backlash of deep remorse directed toward the human taken over by the demon. And all that shame emerged after action against an uncooperative demon.

These three, if he ever finds them, claim to be obliging, if only on their terms.

So he knows, despite all thought to the contrary, that he’ll try to play it cool despite the white-hot heat building at his edges. Hopefully he’ll succeed.

After the decision is made, he hears high-pitched, sinister laughter that draws his attention.

“Sammy! Sammy-boy! So, what did you find out?! Anything interesting? Anything…fun?!”

He’s in a playground, empty except for three figures that are lined up side by side and swinging out of synch with each other on swings. As before, the three demons are impeccably dressed and look completely out of place.

“Don’t call me that,” Sam growls, and the smirking demon, Korbal, responds with a poorly smothered string of manic giggles.

“Silly Sammy, stupid Sammy, sulky Sammy,” murmurs Cresil. “Told you not to look for us.”

Sam’s heated attention shifts to the disheveled demon.

Cresil looks bored. He stops swinging to languish against the chain of the swing. He’s unkempt and kicks at sand with shoes that are no longer perfectly polished. Sam can’t help noticing that the demon’s host is plumper than when they last met.

“Then why show yourselves to me?” Sam asks, irate.

Cresil shrugs.

“Now’s as good a time as any,” the drooping demon says nonchalantly.

“Yes, well, um, you must see Sam that Korbal uh, um, he has a point,” Uphir says, swinging high. “Did you find, ah, out anything, um, interesting?”

Sam tries very hard to force back his gut-reaction fury to Uphir’s stammered inquiry. He’s still struggling with himself when he sees that, oddly, the bespectacled demon has a scroll of aged-looking parchment in his hand. The paper is held irreverently, crushed against the chain of the swing. Even more strangely, Uphir wears a heavy glove on the hand gripping the parchment.

The peculiarity of the sight, as well as silent speculation of what the creature just might be clutching in its hand, does what Sam hasn’t succeeded in doing since Doctor Lee’s phone call. The painfully burning fire in him abruptly extinguishes, and he’s calm as silent water.

Placid.

Cool.

In control.

Uphir and Kobal stop swinging so fast and abrupt it’s as if a switch was cut off.

Sam doesn’t blink at the physics-defying motion. He’s not affected by the weirdness, because he’s all resolve and ice-cold control now. All three demons watch him with wide eyes and open expressions. The emotions passing over their identical faces are obvious.

Disgust.

Reverence.

Fear.

Sam takes one step forward, then another. He thinks of Dean.

“I want to talk,” he says and calmly takes one more step.

Story 3B of The Abaddon Series

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 22:52:00 GMT

Dean’s not sleeping when Sam gets home a few minutes later.

“Where have you been?!” Bobby coarsely whispers the frantic question.

“I got caught up with someone. When did he wake up?” Sam carefully eyes Dean as he talks.

Dean does not look well. In the month since Ruby, Nybbas, and that other, nameless demon came sniffing around, Dean hasn’t left the apartment. Before the demonic intrusions, Dean had recovered enough to tolerate leaving the apartment for short periods of time, sitting at the beach, gaining some color and health back. Now, hunched in a rocker and staring out the window, he looks almost as unhealthy as he did immediately after returning from Hell. He’s too thin, too pale, and his hair is getting too long again.

It’s all just too much.

Dean sits and rocks, rocks, rocks. The squeakiness of the chair is going to drive Sam insane if he has to listen to that all night.

“Are you listening to me, Sam?”

“What?” Sam is pulled from his bleak thoughts by Bobby, who apparently was talking to him.

Bobby’s expression turns cloudy and frustrated.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sam?”

“Fine, I’m fine. What were you saying?” Sam asks, making sure his attention doesn’t wane again.

“I said he came out of his room about twenty minutes ago. He was muttering something about demons again. Wouldn’t let me touch him. Won’t go to bed.”

Sam curses quietly. He’s tried everything to convince Dean that the apartment is protected, that there is no way demons can gain access to their home.

Dean refuses to believe him and insists that there’s one—Ruby, actually—who continues to lurk around the place.

Bobby and Sam have found no sign of Ruby, but Dean can’t get over his delusion. And this delusion scares Sam, because Dean usually is much more willing to trust Sam’s judgment and to rationalize his hallucinations as side effects from his ordeal.

But his belief that Ruby still haunts and prowls the dark places in the apartment is unshakable. Sam worries that Dean is deteriorating into something splintered and wrong and aberrant. This delusion of Ruby, coupled with Dean lately having more bad days than good ones makes Sam worry he is completely losing his brother just when he should be getting him back.

Dean pulls his legs up onto the chair and clutches his knees together with his arms. He looks small and child-like in a hoodie that Sam recognizes by its poor fit as one of his own. Dean’s eyes are glassy as he stares out the window and continues to rock.

Suddenly, Sam could care less about the midterm tomorrow. None of it, nothing at all, matters if he ends up losing Dean.

“I’ll look after him,” Sam roughly says to Bobby. “You should go to bed.” There’s a heavy ball of grief clogging his throat, and he can barely get the words out.

“Sam, you have your test tomorrow. I can stay up and watch him. You need to study,” Bobby says. Bobby’s eyes are tired and wet. The man looks as close to tears as Sam feels.

Sam forces a smile for this man who has looked after them and worried over them as much or more than their real father ever did.

“It’s not important,” Sam says. “I’ll sit with him.”

“You sure?” Bobby asks, unwilling to surrender his vigil.

“Yeah, go on. You look tired.”

Bobby is gentleman enough not to argue any further. He claps Sam on the back and retreats to the relative peace of his own room.

Sam watches Dean for a while longer before carefully making his way to his brother’s side. Dean doesn’t stop rocking and doesn’t acknowledge Sam until Sam places a gentle hand against the rocker to make it stop.

“Dean?”

Dean jumps as if freezing water was thrown on him. His breathing is hard and fast. His eyes are panicked and twitching. Then he recognizes Sam and calms down. Just a little.

“Sammy, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” There’s a speck of recrimination in Dean’s voice that makes the corner of Sam’s mouth perk up into an almost-smile.

“Sorry,” Sam says. “Dean, why are you up? It’s late. You should be in bed.”

Dean scowls, and it’s almost as if Sam’s cocky, son-of-a-bitch brother is back.

“What am I, ten? Leave me alone. I’m thinking,” Dean says. Then his eyes narrow in concentration. “And aren’t you supposed to be studying for some big test or something? Why aren’t you hitting the books?”

Sam’s not happy that Dean’s thinking, because whatever he’s mulling over obviously isn’t good. But he is happy that Dean remembered the test. He’s happy because Dean remembering such things is an indication that his big brother’s concentration is returning. It’s an indication that maybe tomorrow won’t be such a terribly bad day. Maybe, just maybe, it will be a good day.

“I’m done studying for the night,” Sam says.

Dean cocks an eyebrow in disbelief.

“You know it all?”

“Yeah, Dean, I know it all,” Sam says, lying easily.

Dean’s eyes narrow again in concentration, but he’s not so recovered that he detects the untruth.

“Alright, then go to bed. Leave me alone. I’m thinking,” Dean mumbles. He turns away from Sam, tightens his grasp on his knees, and starts rocking again.

Sam again, insistently, stops the chair from moving.

“Sam! What the HELL is your—”

And just like that, what little semblance there was to Sam’s self-confident brother is gone. Vanished. Lickety-split. One little word is all it takes to erase Dean and leave nothing but a shell in the wake of its utterance.

“Dean, it’s okay. Calm down, okay? Just calm down and stay with me.”

It is rare, incredibly rare, for Dean to make such a mistake, to say such a dreaded word. That he has done so now means bad things ahead for both brothers.

Sam crouches down in front of Dean. He clutches his brother’s ice cold hands and tries very hard to make contact with Dean’s horrified eyes.

“Dean, hold my hands. You need to stay with me and not panic, okay? Stay with me.” Sam continues the stream of soothing, encouraging words until Dean somehow finds the strength within himself to keep from dissociating, to keep from disintegrating into a full blown panic attack.

Dean grabs Sam’s hands as if they are the only thing keeping him from flying apart. That’s when Sam finally manages to make eye contact with his brother.

“Okay, Dean. It’s all right. You just need to slow down your breathing. You’re going to hyperventilate if you keep breathing like that.”

Eye contact is suddenly, regretfully lost as Dean wildly examines the room.

“Are you—are you—you sure? No dem—demons?” Dean’s questions are almost incomprehensible, because he’s gulping in air too fast.

Involuntarily thinking of the three demons he met on his way home makes Sam wince inwardly. But he doesn’t let the memory or his reaction to it show on his face.

“None, Dean. Not one. Now I need you to slow your breathing down, okay? Come on, breathe with me.”

Putting Dean’s hand on his chest, Sam starts taking in slow, deep breaths. The contact helps Dean, and soon he’s able to mimic his brother’s breathing. He meets Sam’s eyes again, but continues struggling to ease his greedy gasps for air. By the way Dean’s eyes slide away from his every so often, Sam knows Dean is working too hard to stay focused and associated.

But Sam is insistent and determined, so ten minutes later Dean manages to raise his head all the way and nod at his stubborn brother. Then he lifts his knees, withdraws his hands, and buries his face in his lap. Sam places a strong hand on the Dean’s bony back, and strokes circles of gentle relief there.

When Dean lifts his head again, he’s calm and his eyes are drooping.

“I’m tired,” Dean says, quietly.

Sam expects the sudden drowsiness. These attacks always leave his brother drained and lethargic.

“It’s okay, Dean. I’ll sit with you until you’re asleep,” Sam assures.

Gently Sam helps Dean stand and carries most of his weight as they make their way to their shared bedroom. Dean mutters something, but Sam can’t hear what it is. Sam carefully drops his brother onto his bed, covers him with sheet and blanket, and then turns on the nightstand light.

Sam makes sure Dean is alright before taking his Bible off the top of a stack of books at the base of his own bed. He toes his shoes off and then sits on the bed, leans against the headboard.

He finds the correct chapter and verse but is interrupted before he can read the words.

“I thought you said you were done studying,” Dean mumbles.

A little startled that his brother is still awake, Sam looks up quickly and a muscle in his neck twitches alarmingly. He smoothes the cramp with a conscientious hand and smiles at his brother.

“I am. Just catching up on a little reading. Go to sleep. You’re exhausted.”

“Gone, right? Demon’s are gone? You’re here?” Dean whispers, and his breathing hitches then speeds up.

Sam frowns and climbs half-way out of bed. He doesn’t want to disturb his fatigued brother, but he also doesn’t want another attack to surface. On very bad days, Dean can have several consecutive bouts with panic. Sam doesn’t want to discover that today is one of Dean’s very bad days.

This being a plain old bad day has been difficult enough to handle.

“Take it easy, Dean. The demons are gone, and I’ll be here when you wake up. Stop fighting it now. Go to sleep.”

Dean’s eyes close, and he offers no further comment. After a long while, too long for Sam’s liking, his breathing slows and eases into something approaching normal.

Still worried, Sam watches Dean for a few minutes more before settling back against the headboard of his bed. Then he waits a while longer before turning his attention to the book in his lap.

And then he reads Revelations 4:1.

oOo

“‘After these things I looked, and behold, a door standing open in heaven, and the first voice which I had heard, like the sound of a trumpet speaking with me, said, “Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after these things.”’

“Well what the tarnation is that supposed to mean?” Bobby asks after Sam reads him the passage.

Bobby is not happy. In fact he’s been decidedly unhappy since Sam sat at the kitchen table with him this morning and told him about the three demons from the previous night.

“When Nybbas saw Dean, he started screaming ‘ostium’ and ‘lanua’,” Sam says with a tired shrug.

Bobby grimaces.

“Latin for ‘door’,” he replies, miserably.

Sam has had all night to think about this situation, and he’s so depressed that he can barely talk to Bobby about it now. But ignoring trouble that may or may not be coming down the pike won’t help Dean.

“Bobby, what if Dean is related to this door to heaven somehow, and that’s why all these demons are skulking around?”

“Why? How, Sam? It doesn’t really make all that much sense,” Bobby says.

Sam leans forward and tiredly rubs his forehead with his right hand.

“What I don’t understand,” Bobby says, “is why, after all the poking around and tormenting those demons have done to your brother, why is it exactly that you would even consider listening to another bunch of them?”

“If I thought there was any other way to get answers, do you think I would even consider talking to these guys? Listen, something’s going on. Something big, and it involves Dean somehow.”

“They lie, Sam. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know that. But it doesn’t mean they don’t tell the truth sometimes, and even you can’t deny there’s been a lot of demonic activity around Dean since he, well, since he came back.”

Sam’s right. Bobby can’t deny it, but nevertheless, he doesn’t look convinced.

“Nybbas also said that John of Patmos, the guy who wrote Revelations was lied to. And, well, a son of the morning star? Damn it, Bobby, for all we know John could have gotten the entire story from a demon.”

Bobby laughs roughly.

“From John’s mouth to God’s ear,” he says wryly, and then wipes his mouth nervously. “I don’t like any of this. Revelations? That’s end of the world stuff, and I don’t like to think of you boys getting mixed up in it.”

Sam thinks of the moment when Dean died, of when he was dead and slowly dripping in Sam’s arms. That moment was the end of the world for them both. Both Dean and Sam.

There’s no question about them getting mixed up in all this ‘end of the world stuff.’ No question, because Sam, he’s already mixed up in it, and so is Dean.

He says nothing of his thoughts to Bobby. Instead he shrugs.

Just shrugs.

Bobby gets the point, even though it’s a tough one to swallow.

“I still don’t like the idea of you messing with demons,” the older man says gruffly.

“Listen, I can handle them. The first sign of twitchiness, and I’ll zap them. But let’s play along for a while. I’ll get Dean’s blood checked out. We’ll see if there’s anything to their story.”

“Yeah, and who are you going to send the blood to, Sam? It’s not as if any old general practitioner is going to have a clue what to look for,” Bobby says.

“Remember when I told you about Oregon? Rivergrove and the whole Croatoan ordeal?”

Bobby sighs heavily and takes a deep draw from the beer he started drinking when Sam began telling this whacked out story. It’s only nine in the morning, but Bobby thinks he deserves this one. Just this once. He takes another slug, then nods his head.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, Doc Lee moved to Northern California after all that mess. She’ll know what to look for, and she’s not very far away. I was planning on sending the sample to her.”

Bobby studies Sam with hard eyes. He tugs his cap off his head and quickly replaces it.

“You’ve got this all figured out, haven’t you?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sam admits. “I sorta do.”

“You need to tell him, Sam. You can’t hide something like this from him. Not the way he is right now.”

“I’ll tell him. I just don’t want to say anything until we know for sure there’s something going on. Let’s get the blood results, and then if anything’s there, I’ll tell him.”

“That’s not fair to him, Sam. Not fair, one bit.”

“You didn’t see him last night, Bobby. And Dean going to Hell wasn’t fair either. I just want to protect him for a little while longer.”

Bobby still looks unhappy, but Sam knows he’s not going to argue any further. At least not right now, which is no guarantee the subject won’t come up again later.

“When do you want to draw the blood?” Bobby asks Sam, resignedly.

Sam’s shoulders slump in obvious relief. He reaches out, grabs Bobby’s beer, and takes a swig.

“Tonight. I’ll give him a pill before he goes to bed. He’ll take it for sure, especially after last night. Once he’s out, we’ll get the blood from him. I’ll mail it up to Doc tomorrow morning.”

“Naw, don’t do that,” Bobby says. He steals his beer back from Sam and rubs his beard unhappily. “I’ll drive it up there. It’ll be quicker, and I’ll wait for the results. You better call Lee and let her know.”

Sam’s eyes sting at their corners.

“Thanks, Bobby. Thanks a lot.”

“Yeah, well, you best be going now. You’ve got that test to take.”

Sam’s about to protest the importance of his exam when Bobby’s affectionate expression turns steely.

“The world didn’t stop turning because you boys had a bad night. Take your test. There ain’t nothing you can do until tonight anyway.”

“I told Dean I’d be here when he wakes up.”

“He’ll understand, Sam. ‘Sides, the way he’s sawing wood in there, he’ll probably still be sleeping by the time you get home. Now go on. Break a leg.”

“You’re only supposed to say that to wish good luck to actors right before a performance,” Sam points out.

“Yeah, well, the way this day’s shaping up, we all better be hobbling around before too long. Now stop your yammering, and go to school, you ingrate.”

oOo

That evening Sam’s predictions about Dean’s behavior come to pass when Dean willingly takes the offered sleeping pill. While they wait for the older Winchester to fall asleep, Bobby and Sam talk quietly in the living room.

“How’d that test go?” Bobby asks the question as if the world is normal, and he isn’t about to steal blood from someone he considers a friend.

“I did fine,” Sam says, truthfully.

“Good. That’s good,” Bobby says.

Sam laughs. It’s a cynical huff of sound. He checks his watch and nods.

“C’mon, he should be asleep,” he says. He grabs his bag of supplies, and the two men quietly enter the bedroom.

Dean sleep is comparatively peaceful. His limbs jerk on occasion, and his eyes roll around behind his closed eyelids, but he’s not vocalizing horror or being subjected to whole body convulsions as is sometimes the case. The sleeping pill knocked him out enough that he doesn’t even open his eyes when Sam and Bobby arrange furniture and blood-drawing supplies around him. Sam’s glad, not only because Dean badly needs a good night’s sleep, but also because Sam needs him to stay asleep.

Dean doesn’t even flinch when the needle slides into a vein; Sam’s surprised, but he’s too thankful to do more than just check to be certain Dean’s okay. Dean unconsciously convinces Sam of his well-being by taking a deep breath and sighing. Satisfied, Sam whispers prayers as he draws the blood, thick and red, and looking the same as it always did. And yet, Sam suspects it isn’t the same. Not the same, or else why is he stealing blood from his drugged-up brother in the middle of the night?

He pushes aside his fears but is still grim as he finishes the task. He shakes the tube and skillfully withdraws the needle, then hands the blood sample to Bobby.

To Bobby, who looks just as bleak and pained as Sam feels.

“This ain’t right,” Bobby whispers. Harsh. Angry. Devastated.

“We’ve already been through this. I’m not telling him anything until we know for sure there’s something wrong. He’s been through enough.” Sam says, keeping pressure on Dean’s arm to stem the flow of blood there.

“He has a right to know.”

“Know what?” Sam says, angry now. They already discussed this, and he’s annoyed that Bobby’s bringing it up again now, when they’re in the middle of things. “We don’t even know what’s going on! What are we going to tell him? That demons are hanging around? Oh, I’m sure he’ll be so pleased to hear—”

Sam’s sarcastic whisper is interrupted by Dean who begins muttering in his sleep.

“Please, no. Nonononononono.”

It’s a quiet noise, a simple word repeated with absolutely no feeling behind it. And yet, the unemotional quality of the plea is somehow more appalling than it would be if Dean was screaming out in supplication. Sam’s blood goes cold at the horror of the sound. He’s frozen for too long before he reaches out and carefully, softly strokes Dean’s head in the way he learned is the only one which might calm his brother down.

“Hey, Dean. Hey. Quiet now. You’re safe,” Sam says, gently pushing Dean’s too long hair away from his sweat-soaked brow. “You’re safe.”

His ministrations, thankfully, work, and Dean escapes whatever dark memories pursue him. Sam relaxes a little and checks the site of the blood draw. He blows out a shaky breath when he sees the bleeding stopped.

He makes sure Dean is still relatively calm then stands and meets Bobby’s sad, sick gaze.

“I won’t tell him. Not yet. Not until we know more,” Sam says. Dark. Broken. Determined.

Bobby studies him with flinty eyes, but eventually acquiesces to Sam’s judgment with a swift nod of his head. He leaves the room to pack the blood in ice and begin his nighttime journey north.

Sam pulls a chair over to the side of Dean’s bed and doesn’t sleep the entire night.

oOo

Story continues at: http://emrys777.livejournal.com/5576.html#cutid1

Story 3A of The Abaddon Series

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 22:45:43 GMT

What Ruby Doesn’t Know—Part I: Keeping Secrets

Carefully sipping coffee that is perfectly strong but still too hot, Sam walks through the shabby neighborhood. He left Dean at the apartment only minutes ago—ten, fifteen at most. Only minutes, but Sam still walks briskly.

It’s been months—going on a year, actually—since Sam tore Dean out of Hell, and Dean is not yet recovered. He still hallucinates, still jumps at the oddest noises and is still painfully truthful. And Sam, he doesn’t like to leave his brother for too long. He manages to keep his nervous energy down when he’s in class, but even the distraction of school can’t completely keep him from worrying.

Actually, it’s the distraction of school—a midterm—that has brought him out here this time of night. It’s late, and he’s exhausted, because Dean had a bad day.

Sam’s always exhausted after Dean has a bad day. He’s also always depressed, but he can’t afford to feel that way right now. There’s just too much work to do. Instead he chooses to ignore the sick reaction in his chest and the clogged up feeling in his head. It’s hard, this ignoring business, but mostly he succeeds.

Mostly.

Sam knows he needs to sleep, but before he can do that he needs to catch up on a few case studies that will surely be on his exam in the morning. Coffee was in order, so he left, just for a handful of minutes, to get a cup full of good, strong joe to help him through the night.

He didn’t leave Dean alone—Bobby is more than capable of handling the older Winchester for a little while. And, really, it’s been just a few minutes. Not even a quarter of an hour.

His sharp awareness of the time he’s away from Dean is an obsession Sam can’t break. Neither can he erase the guilt that rumbles around in his head as robustly as the depression does. He can’t erase it, because all of this, all of Dean’s pain and instability has been for Sam.

Dean went to Hell to save Sam. And now, now that Dean’s back and safe, now that Sam is strong and full of white power, well, now Sam can’t save Dean. Can’t save Dean from hallucinations and snooping demons and nightmares. Can’t save Dean from fear and anxiety and a fractured mind.

Sam can’t save Dean from Dean.

Dean tries to overcome himself. In fact he can be an outright pain in the ass at times, just like he could be before his sight-seeing tour through the underworld. Sometimes Dean seems strong, and angry, and just plain pissed off. At those times, those very rare times, Sam can almost pretend everything will all be okay. Finally.

But Dean’s mood is a knife’s edge, a spinning dime. It doesn’t take much for Sam’s hope to evaporate when Dean’s good days turn bad. And those good days, yeah, they do turn bad. And when Dean has a bad day, a day like today, that’s when Sam knows better. That’s when Sam knows that everything won’t all be okay.

It just won’t.

Sam sighs, takes a quick sip of coffee. Yeah, he’s exhausted, but he picks up his pace anyway. He needs to get home.

It’s Sam’s guilt, his unwavering attention to the doubts inside his head that keeps him from seeing the danger when it comes.

“Little Sammy Winchester, my how absolutely funny it is to meet you here of all places. Right in the middle of the street! And oh, look, it’s the witching hour, isn’t it? Hysterical. What a laugh!”

Three men, tall, dark, and dressed in elegant three-piece suits, step out of the shadows into Sam’s path. Sam notices that they could all be brothers, that all three look remarkably alike. The broad smirk of the one who talked, another’s slovenly look, and the third’s pair of steamy eyeglasses are the only differences between the threesome. Sam notes these differences and is curious by the peculiarity of the men. He isn’t afraid of them, because he’s a Winchester and a powerful one at that. He can take care of himself.

And when three pairs of eyes cloud and darken and show their demon selves, well, Sam, he still isn’t afraid.

He’s positively furious.

“Christo!” He yells the word just to annoy the demons. It gives him time to step back and assess the situation.

All three flinch simultaneously.

“That wasn’t funny,” the one who cajoled Sam says now.

“Not at all,” another declares. This is the sloppy looking one. The creature rubs his head as if it aches and doesn’t attempt to smooth down his messy hair once he stops.

Sam’s anger builds, and he’s raring to go. He’s ready, and the world starts to turn white at its edges. It’s been a bad day and, yeah, oh boy, he’s ready to kick some demon ass.

“I told you he’s out of play. When are you stupid fucks going to get the point?” Sam growls. He feels the whiteness burn and savors the anticipation of death and destruction.

“Now, now, now, Mr., um, Winchester. Not so, um, hasty. We, uh, we aren’t here to, um, ah threaten your brother.” The words are hurried and nervous.

Sam can’t see straight, but he knows it’s the demon with the glasses who just spoke. He pauses, because although hesitation could be a mistake here, there’s something different, maybe important, in the demon’s tone.

“Ahem, ah, I, ah, believe you know, that you realize, that your brother, despite all your, uh, actions to prove otherwise, is, uh, is very much, actually, in play.”

The light, the whiteness pulls back. Sam forces it down, so he can listen. But if one of these assholes says the wrong thing, well, the geyser of his power isn’t so far away that he won’t be able to use it in time.

“Let us introduce ourselves. Um, I’m Uphir. My friend here with the annoying laugh is Kobal.”

Kobal bows and giggles, then Uphir continues with the introductions.

“My other, ah, friend is Cresil.”

“Yeah, whatever. Can we get this over with?” Cresil says and belches loudly.

Uphir wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“What do you want?” Sam demands.

The three demons look at each other as if unsure how to start. It’s peculiar behavior for demons, and suddenly Sam’s a little interested.

“A business proposition,” Uphir says.

“Forget it,” Sam replies, with a disgusted wave of his hand. “I’ve had enough dealings with your kind to last a lifetime. Take it up with some other poor fuck.”

Sam shoves past the threesome and isn’t entirely surprised when they all scramble to keep from touching him. He knows his power is painful to them. It’s why he hasn’t been afraid of a demon, any demon, in almost a year.

He crosses the street, and as an afterthought considers splatting these three demons all over the sidewalk. It’s only an instant of thought though, because sometimes—almost all the time—when he turns his power on something, the human housing it is harmed, sometimes killed. Sam can’t stomach that tonight. Not after the day Dean had.

“If I hear of you hurting anyone, I’ll turn you all to dust,” he calls from across the street. It’s an insurance policy. Insurance against further guilt and despair.

He turns his back and hears an unhappy scuffle behind him.

“Winchester! Wait!”

Sam doesn’t know which of the three calls out to him, and he doesn’t really care. His thoughts turn to Dean, and again he quickens his pace toward home.

“Winchester! Listen to us!” There’s a hint of desperation in the voice. Sam still doesn’t care.

“Your brother is in a great deal of trouble!”

Sam doesn’t remember stalking his way back across the street. And yet, suddenly he’s in the midst of the three demons again, and he’s got his hands locked around the throat of the smirking one.

“You leave my brother alone,” he commands. The demon in his hold continues to smirk, but it’s clear that Sam’s touch is uncomfortable to it.

“We have, um, well, no intention of harming Dean,” Uphir says. “It’s just that, well, um, we’re not, well, exactly pleased with the, uh, the uh, way things are going with your, um, well, your brother.”

“Too much work,” the unkempt demon says.

“Not funny at all,” the one in Sam’s hold chokes out.

“Shut the fuck up and let me do this!” Uphir yells. All trace of nervousness suddenly dissipates from him.

For an instant, the demons look ready to fight each other, even the one Sam’s got his fingers around.

Sam pushes the demon in his grasp away and wipes his hand on his pants. Calm follows his move.

“Get it over with,” the messy one, Cresil, hisses.

“Give me some fucking silence, and maybe I will,” Uphir growls back.

Sam interrupts their arguing.

“What are you talking about? What’s the matter with Dean?”

Kobal, the smirking creature, laughs hysterically. He rubs his neck which is clearly damaged from Sam’s hold.

“You’re not going to like it. Not at all,” the giggling demon says.

Uphir takes a deep breath and speaks.

“You didn’t listen very well to Nybbas. A shame really, since you took all that time to barbeque him.” Cunning and nastiness now replace the seemingly characteristic nervousness of the creature and send a chill down Sam’s spine.

“What are you talking about?” Sam asks, wary. Suspicious.

“Won’t believe us, won’t believe us, won’t believe us,” Cresil mutters in an understated voice that sounds like static. The other two demons glare daggered warnings at him.

“Read that story again, Sammy,” Uphir says, once he’s sure Cresil is quiet. He pats Sam’s chest, and licks at his burnt fingers afterwards. “You know it. It’s the one at the end of that cursed book. Read it and think of stupid, fat Nybbas. Maybe you’ll catch on.”

“I read it already. There’s nothing there except for the Morning Star, the name of Luci—”

All three demons cringe and howl.

“Don’t say it.”

“Not that name.”

“Oh please, be quiet. Be very quiet.”

Sammy looks on, confused and still leery.

“I know it’s a story that’s been perverted by a demon,” he continues, hesitantly. He doesn’t know what will set the threesome off again, and it isn’t so very late that their commotion won’t draw unwanted attention. “But I don’t have a clue what it has to do with Dean.”

“What, did you think we’d make it easy for you?” Uphir sneers.

“Yeah, we’re demons, not Santa Claus,” Kobal says and giggles again.

“Oh, all right. Chapter four. Verse one. When you figure it out, we’ll find you. See if you still want to chat,” Cresil drawls, sounding put out and lazy at the same time.

As one, the three demons turn and take a step away from Sam. Sam stands in the middle of the sidewalk, confused and wondering. Why did they even bother with him if they weren’t going to give him straight answers?

He shakes his head and is about to walk home when Uphir halts. The demon, slowly, inexorably turns around. His voice buzzes when he speaks.

“Check his blood. It’s quite important that you do so,” the demon says. The buzzing is disorienting and uncomfortable. It gives Sam a headache. “And remember, we’ll find you. Don’t seek us out. You’ve got many eyes watching you, Winchester. Can’t make it look like we’re in cahoots. Oh, and to that end—”

Kobal, whose back is turned away, suddenly cackles, turns and swings an arm out. Sam almost kisses demon power before his white heat surfaces and retaliates. The demons growl, make a fuss, and do all the things demons normally do before making an unhappy exit.

They howl once more before scampering away from Sam’s bright power.

Sam is left confused and breathing hard.

And his coffee is stone cold.

oOo

Continued at http://emrys777.livejournal.com/5248.html#cutid1

Here are the addresses for the first two stories of this series (just in case you need 'em):

Story I - "Coming Back"

http://emrys777.livejournal.com/4501.html#cutid1

Story II - "Ajar"

http://emrys777.livejournal.com/4613.html#cutid1

SPNFic: Ajar; Story II of The Abaddon Series

Sat, 24 May 2008 23:52:18 GMT

Title: Ajar
Author: Emrys
Category: Gen
Pairing: N/A
SPOILERS: MAJOR SPOILERS for "No Rest for the Wicked", but anything from Seasons Two and Three are fair game.
Summary: This is what happens immediately after Ruby's chat in my story, "Coming Back."

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the television program Supernatural. That all belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke, and whole bunch of other people who are lucky enough to be involved with this show. I’m not receiving any sort of revenue for this fic.

Please note the "SERIOUSLY IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE" behind the cut.

SERIOUSLY IMPORTANT AUTHOR’S NOTE: By adding this fic to my SPN repetoire, I’m putting my fingers in real sticky places. First, it’s a second story to what I guess is going to be a series of stories (the first in said series is “Coming Back”). I’m committed to another HUGE writing project, so it’s a little inconvenient to be playing rough and tumble in the SPN fandom right now. But it doesn’t seem I have a choice, because my brain is obsessed and is working of its own accord. I’m totally out of control.

Second, I’m going to be playing with biblical text. Here is where my fingers come out covered in jam, and snot, and all kinds of sticky goo. To be sure, the book of the New Testament I’m playing with is probably the most interpretative of all the biblical books (in some versions of the Bible, it’s not even included). However, I seriously am playing around with what most consider a sacred text. And I’m doing it to meet the needs of a few demon characters in a piece of fanfiction…it’s bad stuff, truly. So if you’re not into authors messing with the Bible, please, don’t read this story.

And please, don’t flame me. I’m feeling enough heat already (seriously, my palms are sweating just thinking about posting this fic).

Regular ole Author’s Note: Don’t expect the third story in this series (which I’m going to title “The Abaddon Series”) to come out as quickly as this one did. I’m on vacation, so this came fast. But here’s something to think about. I’m a public school teacher. June is on its way!

HUGE spoilers for “No Rest for the Wicked” and you probably need to read the first story in the series before this one makes sense. Also, lots of cursing in this one. I can’t help it if it’s narrated by a demon! Oh, well, I guess I can.

Also, since this is from Ruby’s point of view again, and since she’s not really into squeaking out all of her secrets, this may be confusing at the very end. But it’s supposed to be that way. In time, I’ll have her tell you everything.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the television program Supernatural. That all belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke, and whole bunch of other people who are lucky enough to be involved with this show. I’m not receiving any sort of revenue for this fic.

Ajar

The brothers Winchester play house and try to have a real life. They live in an apartment, together, in a quiet place named after angels. Sam goes to school. Dean tries to stay sane. Bobby visits on occasion.

I visit also. That’s why I know what happens next.

Wanna hear about it?

oOo

Dean still hallucinates. It’s easy to tell because there are times when fear is in his eyes, and he sweats for no good reason. The images come at bad times. Sometimes Sam’s head warps and jiggles unnaturally as he talks; sometimes it’s laughter from nowhere or monsters under the bed.

Dean wonders if he will ever be rid of the delusions, if he’ll be so close to Hell for the rest of his life.

He hates the phrase “rest of his life.” Hates it because he can’t think about what will happen when his life is over.

He just can’t.

Anyway, Dean still hallucinates. So when he sees the swirling in the darkness of corners, he tries hard to ignore it. Does a good job, too. Until today, he hasn’t even spared more than a second glance at the smoky curls in the dark corners.

Silly boy, it’s just me. Weak and harmless Ruby.

But today, Sam left for school, and Bobby’s nowhere in sight. Dean wakes up from a nightmare he can’t remember. He’s sweaty and doesn’t feel very well.

He’s alone and can’t remember why.

So on this day, I help him out a little.

The shades are closed; Sam left them that way so the very bright sun only peeks into the room. Dean’s been sick at heart lately—it’s not hard to imagine why. Sam hopes rest will help his brother, so he’s sensitive enough to keep the light at bay for as long as Dean’s tired body allows. Dean sleeps late in the dim room, but not too late. The nightmares forbid it.

I don’t mind the lack of light, because the dim helps me out. The darkness lends me strength, and my shadow swirls.

Dean stumbles out of bed. His sweaty face turns my way, so I see it when a flash of memory stabs him. It hurts. Bad.

He sinks to his knees. One hand holds his head where the pain is worst. The other presses into the badly varnished wood floor and supports his upper body. The pain ratchets up a notch, and the hand on the floor slips. Wood splinters invade the tender skin under his fingernails; they draw blood. The hand slips again and slides into the gloom of my corner.

The slideshow of hellish memory continues, so he doesn’t notice when I nip and slurp at the blood on his fingers. I draw more of the juicy red stuff and drink it up. My strength increases. It’s just what I need.

I watch him carefully, and I know when his memories are receding. He returns to himself slowly. I draw back, but his hand is still in my corner, bleeding into my swirling shadows. Tough iron and scarlet life still lend me strength and breadth.

Hurriedly, he removes his hand, not far, but I sigh at the sudden loss. He squints at me carefully, and I see it when his eyes widen in recognition. If I had lips, I’d smile.

“Ruby?” he asks. His voice is as rough as the splinters still sticking in his hand.

“About time you saw me,” I say in my demon, buzzing voice. I know the sound reaches him, because he clutches his head and more blood flows from his nose. I’m smug and a little bit pleased.

“Why’re you here?” he asks, wiping at his nose, smearing the blood over his upper lip.

“Idle curiosity, killer. Nothing more.”

I’m half-way in his head now, so I see it when another set of memory blinds him. An image of Hell’s pit swims behind his eyes; the memory of the last time I called him ‘killer.’ I laugh. He sees nothing clearly for a little while.

When he comes back, I laugh for a little while longer.

“So how’re you doing, Dean? Enjoying life away from Hell?”

I giggle, and he can barely stand it.

“Why are you here?” he asks through painful gasps of breath.

His repetitiveness is annoying.

“I’m not telling!” I sing out in my buzzing voice.

He wants to send me away, I know. He vaguely remembers an exorcism that could do the job even though I’m not corporeal.

He just doesn’t remember the words.

He sinks to the floor. He shakes and bleeds and clutches his head. I watch and talk nonsense and laugh at him. He hasn’t come far from Hell, but his edges are clean and linen white. He’s growing in ways he doesn’t know, and one day he’ll be so bright I’ll see the sky through him.

Sam’s power touched him, continues to touch him, and Dean’s becoming what I need.

Outside, the sudden noise of a car door slamming makes Dean jump. It’s Sam. The intruder.

I slurp again at the blood on Dean’s fingertips, lick at the stain on his upper lip. He flinches away from me but doesn’t have the energy to push me completely out of reach.

“Tell Sam I said hello,” I say and retreat to the far back of my corner. Far back, where I can’t be seen.

At least from Dean’s perspective, I’m gone and he’s on the floor sweating and bleeding.

And then little brother is there, grabbing at Dean’s shoulders and saying quiet soothing things that make me mad.

“Dean, what happened?”

Dean can barely speak, and for a moment I think I got away with my visit. But he chokes out an answer after a little while.

“Sam, uh, I dunno, I, uh, I think, I just saw, uh, Ruby.”

I want to laugh at his stuttering weakness. I want to laugh at Sam’s devastated face. Dean doesn’t hide anything from Sam anymore. Sam, sometimes, in selfish moments, wishes this wasn’t the case.

I giggle. That’s when Singer comes in, and I know I’m screwed.

“She’s still here,” Bobby fucking Singer says.

Dean scrambles away from my corner. That’s how Sam knows where I am.

Sam’s eyes narrow, and somehow I’m drawn forward again. I have no control. I’m not happy about that.

“Ruby, what are you doing here?” he asks. There’s no surprise in his voice, just simmering anger. I am compelled to answer.

“You could almost say I’m here for sentimental reasons,” I buzz. Compelled to answer for sure. But these new rules of Sam Winchester’s can’t force me to tell the truth. No demon can be compelled to go against inherent demon behavior. That would just be fucking ridiculous.

“I’m not going to let him be played with by demons. Not anymore.”

“Why, Sam, I’m hurt,” I say, all pout and drone. “I watched after him for you way down in that other place. I would expect a bit more hospitality.”

“He’s not a pawn anymore. He’s out of play. Leave us alone,” Sam says.

And doesn’t he look so delicious in his uneasiness? He doesn’t know what he’s capable of, and for that reason this is all bluff and bluster. He took on Lilith and won by accident. I know he’s strong, and I know how he’s strong. I could have him if I wanted, because I know what his true purpose is.

But I need to play this smart. Can’t have my own pride spoiling my big plans, can I?

I decide to annoy him. It’s fun.

“Oh, believe me, Sam, all sorts of demons have already had their fun with him,” I say, taunting.

His anger abruptly gets away from his control.

“Go away,” he says. “I don’t want to see you again.”

He flicks his hand, and I feel the power flare. I’m forced back, but not totally away. I drank Dean’s blood, and that means I don’t have to leave if I don’t want.

But I’ll stay quiet and hide, just to see what happens next.

Sam stares at his hand. It’s obvious he still doesn’t understand his recently awakened power. It’s still so chaotic and whimsical, working sometimes, but not always. I’m sure he’s wondering why it worked now, or if it even did.

Poor, poor confused baby.

I resist the urge to snicker, because Bobby Singer of the keen hearing is still in the room.

“She’s gone,” Sam says.

Behind him, Singer curses. Beautifully.

“That was stupid, Sam. We need to know more.”

“I know,” Sam says. He’s angry. Angry at Bobby, at himself, at everyone. But his voice is still quiet. “Don’t you think I know?”

Sam looks at Dean, still and in pain, lying heavily in Bobby’s arms.

“C’mon, let’s get him on the bed,” little brother says.

As they lift Dean, Sam begins to cry. Unabashedly.

His sorrow is boon and blessing.

oOo

I come back to my corner of the Winchester abode, but Dean’s not there. I search from black spot to black spot, but my plaything is gone. Yet, interestingly, in the kitchen, when I peer from the corner of a musty cabinet, I see a demon sitting in the middle of the room.

I can tell it’s Nybbas, the fucking stooge, because the body he inhabit grins maniacally and wears those stupid glasses he loves so much. Smoky glass and wire rims. What a clown.

He sits alone and quiet. He’s fat like the stinking pig he emulates. I stretch my smoke to talk to him, but the kitchen door opens and Sam walks in. I am again relegated to a fucking corner.

As soon as Sam comes in the room, Nybbas’ smile grows larger, becomes deformed. He bows his head in a conciliatory way.

“Mr. Winchester, I’ve heard so much about you,” the demon says, all dark eyes and smarmy tone.

“Nothing good, I hope,” Sam quips.

“Oh, never, I can assure you.” Nybbas’ tongue is silver slick and smooth.

Does he know yet just how much trouble he’s in? Does he understand there’s no talking his way out of the mess he’s just buried himself in by getting caught? Worse, by getting caught by Samuel Winchester?

I don’t think so.

“Good to hear,” Sam says. “Now tell me, why all this sudden interest in my brother?”

“Why, I have no idea what you mean,” Nybbas says. He’s lying. Nybbas’ interest is strong. He got a good, hearty taste of Dean Winchester when he was down in Hell. Nybbas hasn’t quite gotten over the flavor of him.

Sam’s power flares, and Nybbas cries out.

“We can do this easy or hard,” Sam says. He glances at the ceiling. I see the devil’s trap and shrink back.

“Oh, I assure you, I prefer the easy way,” Nybbas says, gasping and crouching in new found fear. The dim fuck might just now understand what he’s up against.

“That’s good to know. Now tell me why I’ve found three demons skulking around my brother.”

Three? I have to wonder who the third little shit is. As I wrack my brain—such as it is—no answer comes. I forget to listen into the conversation playing out before me, until Sam’s power flares again. Nybbas is quickly becoming a sniveling wreck. It’s odd. I would have expected more from a demon who basks in the dark fires of Hell.

Then again, Sam’s power is angelic in source. Even I fear it, especially after the little taste he gave me yesterday. Hence I hide in the dark corners.

Nybbas snivels and starts to cry. When his glasses slip down his nose, he hurriedly pushes them back up.

“There’s a story, an important story. It’s been misrepresented,” Nybbas says.

I curse. It’s not really a surprise that he’s going to tell. It’s just that I thought he’d hold out for a little while longer.

Demons. Just can’t trust them to, well, do anything at all.

“What story?” Sam asks, all quiet anger and clenched teeth.

“I can’t tell you that,” Nybbas says. “Please, I’ve told you more than I should already.”

“You’ve told me nothing,” Sam says, and lashes out with his power again.

I’ll give Nybbas credit, he tries hard to withstand Sam’s wrath. But even from my cupboard corner, I can feel the heat of Sam’s rage. It’s exquisite and sharp, like nothing I’ve ever felt in Hell. Nybbas doesn’t have a chance.

Sam steps back to view his work. There’s human meat glazing the demon’s core, and Sam knows it. For a moment, as Nybbas wiggles and howls in fear and pain, Sam looks uncertain. He stumbles out of the kitchen, and the demon shakes and quivers beneath the invisible chains of the devil’s trap. Sam’s gone only for a moment, before he comes back again. It seems as if he’s made a dangerous decision.

“I want answers,” Sam says. “I’ll have them.”

Nybbas shrieks in dismay and, yes, fear. I cringe back. Angelic power can bring retribution in the most serious of ways.

It isn’t long before Nybbas, his skin burning in many places, starts shouting out secrets.

The dumb fuck.

“It wasn’t an angel who spoke to John of Patmos! IT WASN’T AN ANGEL!” He screams. I can tell his mind is warping.

And that’s when Dean Winchester walks through the door.

“What the fuck is going on here?” the older Winchester yells.

I have to admit, it must be a strange sight to walk in on your brother terrorizing a fat, bespeckled demon. Especially when you aren’t expecting it.

“Dean—” Sam says, but he’s interrupted by Nybbas’ now gibbering shrieks.

“Ostium, ostium, ostium,” Nybbas says, and I curse. “Ianua, ostium, ianua.”

“What the hell?” Dean yells over the loud noise Nybbas is making.

Sam ignores Dean for a moment, because he can’t take his eyes off Nybbas who can’t seem to take his eyes off Dean.

“Ostium, ostium, ostium….” Nybbas screams insanely.

It’s a lamentation, his repetitive song. A lamentation, because Nybbas is telling sacred secrets. And not just the little sacred secrets. The big ones.

The whoppers.

Knowing this is bad, I mean seriously, fucking, BAD, I gear myself up. I drank Dean Winchester’s blood very recently, so I have a little strength left. I didn’t want to use it all in one blow; I wanted to save it up to cause mischief of my own when it suited my needs. But now all my plans are on the edge of ruin, and I have a little strength to maybe keep things from unraveling.

Just a little strength. Maybe enough.

As everyone is distracted by everyone else, I sneak my way forward. I blow a little dust, spin a little wind.

Just enough wind to settle the dust on the greasy ceiling of an antique kitchen. The little specks blow and twirl, and stick to the devil’s trap. They’re small, feeble specks of dirt, but they’re enough. They break the spell of the trap.

In a prattling hurry and force, Nybbas is released. He exhales himself out of his human gift box, and digs deep into the cracks of the farm boarded floor. He’s gone.

He doesn’t even say thank-you, the fucking twat.

I shrink back and leave before I feel Sammy’s wrath.

Look what a sniveling mess Nybbas became with only a few moments of Sam’s attention.

I wouldn’t want that to happen to me, would I?

I mean, a lady has her pride.

oOo

Sam reads aloud.

“‘I, Jesus, have sent My angel to testify to you these things for the churches. I am the root and the offspring of David, the bright morning star.’”

He looks at Dean who is sleeping quietly on the nearby couch. Sam’s forehead scrunches up with worry. He bites at a nail.

I know he’s remembering something important. He’s remembering Lilith, and the grand, luminous light she gave off when she tried to smite him only months ago.

We demons can look mighty fine and wondrous when it suits our purpose. That’s what Sam’s thinking. He’s seen plenty of demons, but he’s never seen an angel. Right now, he’s wondering if it would be easy to confuse the two.

I’ll tell you a secret. It is. It really is.

I’ll tell you another secret.

John the Exiled was a fool. He had no scope. And his self-esteem was trashed by the end of his journey. Trashed, because events quieted down; God withdrew, and Jesus went with him. It’s the way of things. It’s how things are.

But John, he wanted Revelation, with a capital “R”. He wanted to know his struggle was worth the fight.

He was fair game and ripe pickings for a very clever demon.

A door is a door is a door.

All doors, except one, are meant to be opened. All clever demons know this.

All doors, except one.

John was lied to by a son of the morning star, and when the time comes, the door which isn’t supposed to be open, will be.

The time is soon. I look at Dean Winchester peacefully sleeping, and I know the time is soon.

And when that time comes, I want to be the Abaddon. I’ll walk the hell of earth and spend my time with sinners. I’ll swan dive into the lake of fire and fan myself with the skin of man. I’ll pluck and gnaw and chew and enjoy the destruction and wrath.

Now doesn’t that sound like fun?

It sure does to me.

oOo

Last Author's Note: The text Sam reads is Revelations 22:16

SPNFic: Coming Back; Story I of The Abaddon Series

Sun, 18 May 2008 01:31:30 GMT

Title: Coming Back
Author: Emrys
Episode: No Rest for the Wicked
Category: Gen
Pairing: N/A
SPOILERS: MAJOR SPOILERS for "No Rest for the Wicked", but anything from Seasons Two and Three are fair game.
Summary: This is my take on what happens immediately after the events of "No Rest for the Wicked."

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the television program Supernatural. That all belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke, and whole bunch of other people who are lucky enough to be involved with this show. I’m not receiving any sort of revenue for this fic.

AGAIN! MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE SEASON THREE FINALE!

Sam’s crying. Crying, bright tears that glisten in the glow of moonlight. It’s a shame he saw the dogs take his brother that way; it’s just too much for him.

He shivers and moans as he takes his brother’s bloody body into his arms. The tears mix with the red rivers that drain from Dean. It’s as if his blood is trying to follow him into Hell.

Sam shivers and moans and shakes with the energy that fought off Lilith and which now coalesces into an invisible fire. Invisible, but warm and soothing, nonetheless.

And powerful.

The power grows, but Sam barely notices. He knows why Dean sold his soul, because he’d be doing it now if the right situation presented itself.

Lucky for him, those individuals capable of presenting the right situation are too busy slavering over Dean’s soul to bother with Sam right now.

Anyway, the power grows and grows until it pushes out of Sam and into Dean. Sam cries out, because he finally notices that something weird and unusual is happening.

The lifeless body in his arms rolls and rocks with the strength of the power being forced into it. Sam can’t bear to see the abomination of Dean departed, so he closes his eyes and bends his head low into the soft leather of his recently deceased and Hell-bound brother.

The leather still smells of Dean, and Sam just can’t stand it because it smells of iron-rich blood as well.

The power grows, and Dean’s body rocks, and then there is a silence and blankness that Sam doesn’t try to understand. It’s like what happened, very recently, when Lilith tried to attack him. But this time he blacks out completely and for several minutes.

When he wakes up, he’s disoriented. Confused. So when he sees Dean looking at him—quietly staring—when he sees that soul looking at him from out of eyes no longer lifeless, it doesn’t hit him at first that he’s just performed a miracle.

It takes another few beats of his rapidly beating heart for a particular impulse to cross the critical synapse in his brain. When it does, it feels as if he’s been struck by lightening. It feels surreal, and fantastical and oh, so joyous all at the same time.

“D—Dean?” he whispers. He barely breathes, waiting for the impossible to become that way again.

It’s not until Dean chokes out the precious name, not until Sam hears the word that has made his life real for as many years as he’s been alive, that he begins to believe what he sees.

“Sammy?”

The word is choked and painful, but blessed and best. Sam screams and laughs and cries all at the same time. He practically scampers to lift Dean’s still-broken body into the embrace of his arms.

He doesn’t question the miracle.

Such optimism.

Such foolishness.

But he doesn’t question, because he thinks he’s just saved his brother from a fate worse than death, saved him from eternal hellfire and all that shit. It’s written over his entire face.

Sam loves Dean, so Sam saves Dean.

Simplicity.

Stupidity.

Because he didn’t just save his brother from the torture of brimstone. Not by a long shot. Dean’s soul has been crumpled and burned, torn open and sewn together with its pieces out of place, gouged and scraped, bitten and plucked.

I know, because I saw it all happen. Down there in Hell, I swung by, on occasion, to watch interested parties take, well, interest.

oOo

Time in Hell is variable. Pockets of that nightmare realm move slowly, and others move fast. Time is a tool used to expedite pain or to slow down the procedure of its occurrence. It allows the single-minded devils to relish drawn out, exquisite agony of an unmentionable nature, while it simultaneously lets other more creative demons take their enjoyment from a wide variety of tortures applied in an efficient way.

It’s Hell, after all. Time is irrelevant when eternity stretches in all directions.

Dean’s time in Hell, though only moments in Sam’s reality, expanded across two decades. Maybe even three decades. Like I said, time is hard to figure down there in the afterlife of evil. But it most definitely was a long time, and he wasn’t saved no matter how much Sam wants to believe otherwise.

When Lilith took me out of my pretty body, she did send me away, just like she told Sam. Far away. But then Sam got her, and it didn’t take me long to escape after that sweet exorcism. She was still around, but weak, scared, and easy to avoid. And that’s just what I did, even though I was weaker than she was.

So I managed to visit Dean, when he was still stuffed with hooks, stretched by chains, and screaming Sam’s name. I snuck up behind him and hollered, “Boo!”

He jumped, and his soul bled a little more. His soul, so new and shiny and oh, so terribly pretty. But it bled, then, like so much meat at a slaughterhouse.

“You’ll forget him,” I warned. “They’ll flay him from your soul here in the dark.”

“Ruby,” he said, all panic and rolling eyes.

“It’s funny how everyone in that other place thinks Hell is full of fire,” I mused, ignoring him for the moment. “I never understood it, considering just how dark this place actually is.”

I studied him, and he stared at me, disbelieving and sick. I decided to humor him, well, as much as you can in that bad place.

“Yep, it’s me,” I said, acknowledging my demon self to him.

“Fuck off,” he whispered, hanging his head.

Half angry, half amused, I laughed sharply.

“You don’t fool me, baby, not here where all souls are purified straight down to their soft, gooey centers. You don’t fool me for a second. You’re happy to see a familiar face.”

He was fresh meat trying to be tough there in Hell. He still remembered enough of his humanity to insult me.

“Dream on,” he spat.

“Whatever. You just hang out here for a while,” I said, the sound of pretty pouting and fluttering eyes in my voice. “Here’s where they start stripping your memory away. Sam’s not even gonna be a candle smoke of thought by the time they’re done with you.”

He tried to look fierce and failed. He knew I was right.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, devastated. He was so tasty looking, and the demons were going to have fun with him, no doubt about it.

I leaned in and smacked my lips close to his bloody ear.

“You need to remember him. No matter what, remember Sam,” I whispered, barely a breath as I tried to hide my words in a place where everyone and every thought is stripped to become open and naked.

“What?” he asked, shocked. He tried to move his head so he could look at me, but I stayed close and wouldn’t let him see.

“Let them take everything else. They’re going to get it anyway. Let them think they’ve even taken Sam. Believe it yourself if you can. But don’t forget him. Not really, not where it counts. Push his spark deep and down where it will take time for them to touch it. Do what I say.”

“Will it save me?” he asked, a small flicker of pathetic hope escaping him. “Will it keep me from turning into a demon?”

I backed away to consider him and his stupidity. I blinked and shook my head in disgust.

“You’ll become a demon, there’s no stopping that,” I said, shattering his fragile foolishness into ash. “But if you’re strong enough, you could turn like me,” I added.

He closed his eyes, shook his head. The true and yawning demon in me wanted to laugh, but I didn’t set it free. Instead, I pulled his head back by tearing at his hair, and I forced him to look at me.

“Sam,” I said. “Keep his memory close. Keep that. They’ll be nothing else.”

oOo

Sam’s fire cauterized the wounds plaguing Dean’s body. The bleeding stopped instantly, but Dean’s still weak, practically unconscious. He can’t speak, not really. All he seems capable of is muttering one word, over and over.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.”

Sam’s obviously disconcerted. Even I can see it, weak as I also am. I’m forced to watch from a dark corner of the room. Forced to stick to the shadows, because I’m too frail to participate in events.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” Sam soothes. He lifts Dean in his arms as if his brother is a small child. Dean’s not small, and Sam, so recently bereaved, stumbles under the very real weight of his brother. He smiles, actually smiles, when he realizes that the burden of flesh means Dean’s back and alright and a-okay.

The fucking idiot. If I was given more time, if I was stronger, I’d punch him in the face for being so ridiculous.

I’d punch him hard.

Sam carries Dean outside. He ignores the corpses in the house, ignores the traumatized living. He’s born enough responsibility for these strangers, and it’s time to take care of his own. He leaves the house, and through a cracked windowpane I glimpse him gently carrying Dean away, up the street somewhere past my seeing.

I can’t follow them any further. Not now. I’ll find them later after I’ve rested up.

I have plans.

oOo

When I found him later, he wasn’t totally gone, not yet. But he was in the pit.

Here’s a newsflash: I don’t like the pit. Too many bad memories simmer there.

Most demons relish a chance to thrash at a soul in the pit. Every soul there is defenseless, feeble, drooling on itself in pain and self-pity. That’s the best kind of soul for a demon.

Demons eat that shit up. Lick at the sweaty edges of the pit’s torn souls. Lick and grunt and feed their need.

Dean was being fed upon when I snuck to the pit’s edge. Four demons nibbled at his hands and the skin on the back of his thighs. They were enjoying themselves.

He was just screaming.

A lot.

I waited until the demons got bored and then made my way down to him. Part of me wanted a taste, because he was still a bit shiny and pretty. But I restrained myself and drew near.

“Ruby,” he said. It was a simple statement with no emotion behind it. He had lost his faith long ago and no longer saw me as hope’s vessel.

“Yep, me again. Having fun, killer?” I asked coyly.

He ignored the question but struggled in doing so. His soul was scraped raw, and its dredges were exposed. He was so prettily, prettily wrecked.

“Where’d you go? After Lilith took you, I mean?” he asked between painful gasps.

“What a silly question,” I said, almost surprised. “Why would you want to know something like that?”

“Curious, I guess. There’s not that much to do but think while they’re having their fun. I was just wondering what happened to you.”

“Awww, ain’t you sweet. You actually care.” I ventured to be sarcastic.

“Don’t get all worked up, darlin’. I still hate your guts, but I could use the distraction.”

I laughed.

“Honey, when some bitch high up in the food chain is gunning for you, you don’t get sent to anyplace pleasant here in the underworld,” I said, feeling my eyes harden.

“Did it hurt?” he asked, face blank and pale.

“A little,” I said, shrugging.

“Good,” he replied, biting.

He smiled at me to blunt the sharpness of his words. That smile was a miracle. A smile. In Hell. Wonders will never cease, I suppose, and wasn’t this Winchester turning into something interesting?

“How’d you get here?” he asked, grunting the words out. He was obviously in pain from some torn piece I couldn’t see.

“I know my way around,” I said, not willing to hand out any of my secrets.

“Why’re you here?” he asked as the sweat began to pour from his body. From the increase in his discomfort, I knew the others were coming.

“I’ve come to ask you a question,” I said, businesslike and purposeful.

“Fire away.”

He was trying hard not to scream, and his eyes were beginning to roll in their sockets again.

“What’s the name of your brother?”

“What?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

He was irritating me. I wanted to make sure he remembered, so I grabbed his fire-lashed shoulders and shook him.

“Your brother. Dean, what is the name of your brother?” I asked, shaking him hard enough to force out the scream he was still trying to keep in.

“SAM!” he yelled, and then said, more quietly, “My brother’s name is Sam.”

He sobbed, and I watched him for a little while. I saw that he wasn’t as strong as he was pretending to be, that parts of him were missing even though he remembered me and remembered Sam.

I left when a greasy creature with many heads began to scrabble its way down the pit to have its own sort of fun. I recognized it and its crab-like claws from my own first years in Hell.

It’s hard to forget something that can cause quite so much pain.

oOo

Bobby Singer, the redneck, comes to the small, abandoned house where the Winchesters stay. I’m still lurking in the dark corners, peeking and trying to see what comes next. Bobby’s competent but irritating. I try to stay out of his way, because he knows too much. I don’t think he’d appreciate my presence.

He brings blood with him. Type specific, whatever that is. Blood is blood, to me. It doesn’t matter what type it is, all of it is red and shiny and smelling of metal. Yummy and sweet to my demon tongue. I could use some now. If only I could swallow a little of it down, my strength would be appeased. At least somewhat.

But Dean needs blood, a lot of it. His body is dry from the lack. His lips are cracked from dehydration, his skin is bleached white. There are dark circles, like bruises under his eyes. Bandages cover his torso, his legs, and his arms. He looks like a mummy.

The bandages hide the scars. Dean’s wounds, terrible as they were, are practically healed. That’s Sam’s doing. Sam’s power did all that healing, and it’s still working, even now.

I knew what could happen when I whispered Sam’s name in Dean’s tormented ears down in the crushing weight of Hell. I knew what Sam’s power might do. But even I didn’t expect this much so fast.

Two days, and the hounds’ work has been undone.

Beautiful.

Dean even managed to escape his demonic fate, and quite frankly, it’s truly unbelievable how lucky some assholes are.

Dean’s tense and his eyes wander about. He’s conscious but not quite cogent. He refuses to look at the damage to his body. Whenever Sam is close, he relaxes, yet if Sam attempts to remove the bandages Dean panics.

The devastation of his body only reminds him of the worse devastation of his soul. He can’t look at himself and stay sane.

Knowing what I know, of what’s been done to him, I’m not sure how he’s managing it—staying sane—even now. Despite being forced to crawl around in the shadows, I’m still a demon. Hell isn’t pleasant, but I’ve learned how to maneuver through its dark corridors. Dean was just turning truly evil down there in the shady realm when he was saved by Sam. Now he’s turned human again, and I don’t know how he’s keeping his mind at home in his pretty, pink brain.

Sam’s special. And I know why. That’s my secret for right now. I won’t share.

But the more I see of Dean, the more valid I find my suspicions.

Dean’s special. I don’t know why. That’s his secret for right now.

Maybe one day he’ll share.

oOo

When I came back the next time, Dean wasn’t talking anymore. With a wave of my hand, I forced away the creatures that were crawling over him and chomping on his remaining juicy spots. The monsters were smaller than the demons, but warped with cold fish heads and fat rat bodies. They were big enough to get in my way. With them gone, I was able to lean in closer.

“Dean?” I asked, not totally concerned but curious anyway. Dean interested me then, and he still does now. But he only makes reaching my goals easier; they’re still attainable without him.

“Dean?” I asked again. He stared blankly, not recognizing me, not recognizing his own name. “Hey, anyone in there?” I asked in a sing-song voice.

I tapped him cruelly on his forehead. There was no response, not even an eye twitch.

“Didn’t think it would happen to you, did you, you stupid fuck?” I asked him.

I was inexplicably angry with him but couldn’t be too harsh. Sooner or later, this sort of thing happened to everyone here. It had happened to me, long ago. I even remember most of it. It’s not a pleasant feeling when your soul is slowly, inexorably twisted and chucked inside out so that all the vital, tasty bits are vulnerable to attack.

His edges were stripped clean, and he was down to the bareness of bony humanity. It wasn’t going to take much longer to blacken his soul completely and turn it into a sooty demon cloud.

I leaned in until I was brushing against the hellfire still caressing him.

“Sam,” I whispered, and my curiosity peaked.

He came back then, for a little while. I could see him there around his own eyes. But it wasn’t long before he went away again.

“That’s right, baby,” I said, slapping his soul and adding to the burn. “You remember Sammy.”

oOo

Lilith surely did take a lot from me, so I’m still crawling in the shadows many months after Dean’s returned to his brother’s tender clutches. This is why night is the best time for me to spy on my pet project. There are plenty of shadows to curl and twist in, to peer and pry from.

Dean’s lying on a broken cot, covered by a moth-holed, army blanket. His pillow is so flat, it’s basically useless. But his bed is better than Sam’s, because little brother had to be happy with the floor. Down there on broken boards, Sam’s large frame is bunched up inside a sleeping bag.

It’s quiet, so quiet I can almost hear the moon drifting its way across the nighttime sky. Its pale light shines in through a small window and casts the boys’ faces in silver and shadow.

The quiet breaks when Dean begins to moan in his sleep.

Soon, he’s writhing on the cot, pulling at his hair, groaning and drooling. It’s not long before he starts screaming. He sits straight up in bed, and his eyes are open but he’s not seeing anything other than whatever images his nightmare forces on him.

He screams and screams and screams and isn’t about to stop anytime soon.

Sam is awake and beside his brother before Dean’s spittle can even fall to the floor. He crushes Dean against him, but Dean still keeps on screaming.

Bobby runs into the room with pure panic on his disheveled face. He shares a desperate look with Sam, who shakes his head and continues using physical contact to try drawing Dean out of his stupor.

Bobby comes closer. Sam’s way isn’t working, so the older hunter reaches over and grabs Dean’s ear. He twists it, and Dean flails against Sam’s chest. The screaming stops. Dean’s eyes open, and he’s awake. Sort of.

I can see by the look on Sam’s face that he wants to voice an objection to Bobby’s harsh treatment. But he doesn’t get a chance, because Dean suddenly flops to the side of the cot and heaves bile and more spit to the floor. A perverse part of me laughs at his weakness, and Singer’s attention is suddenly fixed on my dark corner.

I control myself and sink further into the shadows, beyond the reach of the old man’s senses.

In the meantime, Dean’s upchuck ends. Sam draws his hand through his brother’s damp hair.

“C’mon, man. Let’s get you up.”

Sam and Bobby maneuver Dean’s body so that he’s lying on his back again (Dean’s shivering is going to be the end of that dilapidated cot, I can tell). Dean starts repeatedly moaning Sam’s name again, and the sound reminds me of my first conversation with him in Hell. He was screaming then, but it was still Sam’s name.

“Calm down, Dean. It’s okay,” says Sam.

Dean snaps out of it completely then and realizes where he is and who he’s with.

“God, sorry,” he whispers. He sits up. One hand clutches at Sam’s shoulder, but the other supports his own body.

“No problem,” Sam and Bobby say, almost simultaneously.

“I’ll be all right in a minute,” Dean says. His breathing is harsh, but it’s slowing down.

“Not a problem,” says Bobby.

“Take your time,” says Sam.

Dean follows Sam’s advice, but it only takes a few minutes before he’s lying down again, fast asleep. Bobby leaves, and Sam watches over his brother.

It’s then when I realize I have faith in these two Winchesters. I have to laugh at the sick joke that is me. The fact is that even though demons take pride in their lies, we always recognize the truth. And the truth really is that I have faith in these two sorry fucks. Me, a faithless demon, discovering faith in the most fallible of creatures. That’s just fucking hysterical.

I study Sam who is studying Dean, and I know for sure Dean will come back from this. Despite the circumstances, Dean’s soul has been touched by a speck of angel’s power. And when a soul—no matter its torment—is touched by that sort of thing, it’s soothed and healed and strengthened.

Dean’s been smashed by the hottest flames of all, but he’ll be tempered under Sam’s numinous influences. When all is said and done Dean will be a weapon, and the first of his kind.

He’s not ready yet, but he will be soon. And then, maybe then my plans will bear fruit.

My plans. Are you curious about them? Well, it’s too bad for you, then isn’t it? Because there’s no law, natural or supernatural, that compels me to tell the likes of you.

Besides, the trite say patience is a virtue. Just this once, take their advice. Try to be virtuous. If you’re very unlucky, you’ll see, eventually, what my scheming brings.

Fic: Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

Sun, 24 Jun 2007 15:43:58 GMT

Title: Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails
Author: Emrys
Warnings/Spoilers: Language; mention of child prostitution; slight spoilers for "Faith."
Rating: Teenagers and older.
Genre: Angst, gen
Disclaimer: Yeah, not mine, and no money.
Summary: It's Sam's turn to watch over Dean.

A/N: This story was brought about by a comment that vesuvianite made on lj about my other story, “What Little Boys Are Made Of.” The comment was: ‘I wish he would have considered stealing food before prostituting himself.’ At first, I thought I had made a mistake in my thought process during the writing of “Little Boys,” but then I realized that there could be a reason why I never had Dean even consider stealing food. That’s where this story comes to play. Having said all that, there’s no way this little ficlet makes sense unless you read “What Little Boys Are Made Of.”

A/N2: A very small detail missed my attention during the first posting of this fic. But thanks to a sharp-eyed friend, I've made a change to straighten out my mistake. Thanks Katalin!(Emrys-June 24, 2007)

Here's the link to "What Little Boys Are Made Of"

Dean can't remember the last time they stayed in a place that was worse.

And here's the new story:

Sam can’t remember a time when Dean’s looked worse. His brother’s body is sweat-soaked and pummeled by chills. His skin exudes a sour, toxic scent that can only mean the particles of illness being pushed through his weakening system have invaded the inner, fundamental workings of organ, tissue and cell. All of this is bad enough, but what really sets Sam’s teeth on edge is the sound of Dean’s labored breathing. That wet, rough noise is the insidious harbinger of a big, bad nastiness. Its reality keeps Sam from seeking any sort of refuge in the false hope that Dean’s just exhibiting the symptoms of a typical cold. Besides, the sight of Dean extracting air in heavy, difficult breaths does little to contradict the need for concern.

Sam wants to lay waste to the virus that abounds in Dean’s pulmonary tissue and which is surely the cause of his discomfort. But he’s useless in this capacity so instead he moves to the small bathroom of the cheap motel room where he moistens one of the aging, yellowish washcloths with cold water from the tap. When he leaves the cracked tiled haven of the bathroom, he can’t help but notice that Dean’s sickly pallor has turned a shade greyer. To make matters more worrying, the menacing sounds of lung-deep congestion—indicated by the entwined noises of wheezing and coughing—have only gotten louder.

Sam simultaneously places the cool washcloth on his brother’s sweat-soaked forehead and tugs at Dean’s shoulder. Despite the combined stimuli and Dean’s honed instincts, it takes too long for the elder Winchester’s eyes to drift open.

“Sammy?” Dean asks once his eyes are open wide enough so he’s able to see who’s standing in front of him.

“Dean—”

“Sammy? You okay?” The words are a whispered croaking impacted by the blockage of what Sam suspects is slow suffocation.

“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam says. He wonders at his brother’s concern which is still strong despite the fact that it’s actually Dean who’s the one in trouble right now.

Dean nods, and his eyes close again. Sam sees him wince and move his hand to his head as if it pains him.

“How’s your headache?” Sam asks. Despite knowing most of his brother’s tells, Dean’s been closed-lipped about his symptoms, and Sam’s still not sure of the extent of his pain.

“Fine. Head’s fine,” Dean mutters, but the lines of hurt surrounding his eyes belies the comment.

“I’ve got some Tylenol,” Sam says, grabbing the bottle of pain reliever off the nightstand. He quickly shakes out a couple of the pills, but before he can offer them, Dean turns a disturbing shade of green.

“N…no,” Dean says, eyes still closed. He begins swallowing in abrupt, thick bursts, and Sam has just enough time to grab the garbage can before Dean starts gagging. He maneuvers his brother’s body so that he won’t aspirate on vomit and then shoves the trashcan underneath his face.

Dean’s drained and shaking by the time it’s over, and Sam settles him back down onto the pillows and then draws the ratty blankets up to his chin. Dean prefers to sleep on his stomach, but right now his breathing is easier if he’s on his back and slightly elevated.

“Dude, I think you need a hospital,” Sam murmurs.

“N…no hospital,” Dean says and then pauses to catch his breath. “Hate ‘em,” he explains when he’s able.

Ever since he escaped from the hospital after his heart was injured fighting that goddamn raw-head, Dean’s been reticent about going to any medical facility. But considering the symptoms his brother’s experiencing, Sam’s beginning to think they’re not going to have a choice this time around.

“Dean, you’re getting worse,” he says in an effort to reason with his near-delirious brother.

“I…’m fine, Sam. Lemme be.”

Sam feels a stab of frustration brought on by the situation. Dean was nursing a cold for almost a week when he was held under stagnant bog water by a sprite trying to make her annual kill. The adrenaline coursing through Sam didn’t keep him from losing sight of the fact that the only real way he could save his brother was by killing the water sprite first—he was and is, after all, a hunter’s son. The cold iron in his hand burned when he lifted its fragile weight, and his heart ached with the knowledge that every second that passed was one in which his brother was denied oxygen.

Those seconds passed too quickly, and the svelte sprite was wily and cautious as Sam approached her. She watched Sam carefully, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion as he moved closer. He covertly pinned the frozen sewing needle made of iron into the folds of his jacket so that she wouldn’t see it, but he knew that she sensed something wrong by the frown on her ethereal face.

“You will not have him,” she said in a voice that squelched like water trapped in the tight places of black earth.

Sam took a step closer and said nothing. He knew that sprites were cunning creatures and speaking could give this one power that he didn’t want her to have.

“You will not have him,” she repeated, laughing in a girlish way that raised the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck. Her smile broadened ghoulishly, and then without warning she lunged at Sam when he took one step too close.

Sam was ready for her though and, adrenaline still pouring through him, he deftly side-stepped her, pulled the needle free, and managed to nick the corner of her left eye with the edge of its cold iron. It was the smallest of wounds, but one that would do the job that Sam needed it to do.

The sprite screamed in anger, and Sam had a moment to notice that gangrenous blood streamed from her eye like festering tears before she disappeared in a monstrous splashing of water. He took little time to adjust to the sudden change from quick and deadly battle to the quiet, solitary success that came with her vanishing before plunging into the filthy water to search its depths for his brother.

Apparently no longer under the thrall that had kept him pinned under the water, Dean was kicking his way back to the surface when Sam dove under. Sam easily reached him and helped him back to the mucky shore where the elder Winchester collapsed. There, Dean violently brought up the water that had settled into his lungs, but in between bouts of heavy coughing he smiled rakishly at his brother.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

“Never better,” Dean replied once he was able to catch his breath.

But the truth is that Dean wasn’t okay then, and he’s not okay now. Some of the polluted water soaked into Dean’s lungs during his scrape with the sprite, and it brought along its own bits of nastiness that only magnified and added to the effects of the viral infection he previously was fighting. Right now, Sam thinks that Dean is suffering from pneumonia.

A very bad case of pneumonia.

“Dean—”

“Sammy?” Dean asks, and coughs. “You okay?”

Sam presses his fingers into his forehead as he realizes that Dean’s increasing disorientation is not a good thing. Not a good thing at all.

“Yeah, Dean. I’m okay.”

“N…no hospital,” Dean mutters breathlessly, and then stills. Sam panics until he realizes that his brother has simply fallen into a fitful sleep.

He goes back to the bathroom and wrings out the washcloth before dampening it again with cold water. He returns to Dean’s bedside and begins washing down his brother’s face and neck in a desperate attempt to lower the rising fever.

He’s cursing the entire time he’s working, because Dean’s being an asshole. Sam doesn’t understand this philosophy that his brother lives by; the one that puts Sam before all others. He actually hates this philosophy so much that he doesn’t much care to understand it. Hates it because it’s also a philosophy that makes Dean put others in front of himself. It’s the cause for their current predicament, and the cause for a life fraught with what Sam considers is unnecessary self-sacrifice on Dean’s part. At least Sam and his father hunt to garner revenge; Dean hunts because he wants to put his own life in danger for the sake of others.

It’s a warped and depressing way of thinking about oneself and one’s worth, and Sam’s just tired enough to want to weep because of it.

Dean’s fever must be higher now, because the cold water soaking the washcloth quickly heats up as Sam wipes it across his sick brother’s face. He goes into the bathroom to moisten the washcloth again, and it’s this time, the third time, when he catches the slight odor of sulfur drifting from the tap water.

The scent, which is both frightening and insulting, triggers a distant recollection of another hotel room. The memory of that time so long ago when he was eight is not as vague as some of the others that Sam carries with him. Maybe it’s the gnawing, debilitating hunger he suffered that has sharpened his evocation of this experience. Or maybe it’s the fear for Dean that gradually developed over the course of several days. Sam’s not sure of the cause, but the truth is this is a memory that often surfaces when Sam’s thrust into battle with Dean’s self-deprecating outlook on life.

At the time, so long ago when Sam was eight, he was too little to understand much more than Dean had been close to crossing some line. Some dangerous line that Sam knew existed but which remained undefined to his young mind. He remembers Dean staring out a window and being splashed with oscillating tones of black and red. He remembers the buzzing annoyance of electricity, and the twinned look of fear and determination that steadily grew on his older brother’s face as the days slowly passed.

The memory of the desperate-looking boys he noticed on their illicit trip to the little grocery store stayed with him long after the actual incident. And over time, as his knowledge of the world and what lives in it grew, he’s been able to piece together what his older brother was willing to do for him way back then when Sam was too little to understand, and they only had each other for company.

Right now, while he’s soaking the washcloth with sulfurous water, Sam can clearly remember when he finally started to put together the last pieces of the puzzle that had been Dean’s actions back then. He was fourteen, standing on the outskirts of a different city, standing by his brother and waiting for their father who had called and ordered them to check out of their hotel. Something wrong had happened during a hunt—of course their father hadn’t explained exactly what—and they had to leave immediately.

So, angry and annoyed, he was standing with Dean and silently fuming. And then Dean took an overtly protective stance for reasons that Sam wasn’t immediately able to determine. He was annoyed that his brother stepped in front of him and partially blocked his view of a car. It was a low car, an aged sedan, but Sam wasn’t able to make any other observations, because his stupid, older brother was in the way. Dean said something gruff and unrelenting, and a voice like oil rolled through the air in response. Then the car slowly moved past the two Winchester boys, down the busy road until it stopped at a place where some boys were slinking across the street. One of the boys drove off with the oily-voiced man while another was returned from his ride in a different low car. Sam saw the wad of bills that the returned boy carelessly flaunted, and that was exactly the moment when he put it together.

That was when he was introduced to the first half of Dean’s philosophy; the half that states Sam’s worth is greater than any other’s. Up until then, he hadn’t truly recognized the extent of Dean’s actions on any conscious level. And later, during the idle times between hunts when his thoughts drifted to bologna sandwiches and stalking, rangy boys, he gradually became acquainted with the second part of Dean’s philosophy. Because when he languidly contemplated things like five dollar bills stretched thin and strange women speaking in foreign tongues, he couldn’t help but wonder—why hadn’t Dean just stolen food for them both?

The answer wasn’t immediately clear, but with time it slowly developed. In Dean’s world, stealing from people is wrong. His big brother would never have considered taking what he needed, because it would have hurt someone else. And here’s the part of Dean’s philosophy that Sam hates the most, the putting all others in front of himself part of Dean’s goddamn, fucking, idiotic, stupid ass philosophy.

Because it’s always, always the reason why Dean puts himself in danger. It’s the reason why he almost prostituted himself, it’s the reason why he almost fucking died from the raw head attack, and it’s the reason why they went after a water sprite that almost drowned him.

Right now, Sam sighs heavily and squeezes out the washcloth again. The smell of sulfur is pervasive, but Dean’s muttering and coughing heavily in the other room so Sam ignores the repugnant scent. He rushes from the dimly lit bathroom to find Dean weakly struggling out of his bed. The tangled mess of the blankets has his legs trapped, so he’s not making much headway. But he’s coughing wildly and wheezing in between, and it’s enough to skyrocket Sam’s heart rate.

He’s by Dean’s side in two, long strides. Placing one hand on his brother’s burning forehead and another on his heaving chest, Sam pushes Dean back against the pillows.

“Leave me…’lone,” Dean says in two gasps that are thick with congestion. He coughs hard, and the fight in him is weakening. “Leave…leave…me—”

It’s a request Sam refuses to grant even though Dean thinks his own worth is so unimportant compared to anyone else’s. In fact, Sam abjectly refuses, because Dean’s always been worthy of the world, of sacrifice and at the very least a goddamn, stolen bologna sandwich. Dean’s worthy of so much more than he knows. And so now as Sam struggles with his brother, he makes a decision. It’s a hard decision, but an easy one all the same.

“Dean,” he says to his brother who’s only semi-conscious and way too sick, “let me take care of you this time.”

In a little while—when Sam is carefully bundling his older brother in thin, hotel blankets that smell of sweat and sickness and when he’s tenderly easing Dean into the Impala’s broad, back seat, and while the car eats up the road between hotel and hospital—all that while, the determination on Sam’s face will mirror that which once marred his brother’s so long ago when Sammy was eight, and Dean watched over him.

Supernatural GenFic: What Little Boys Are Made Of

Sat, 09 Jun 2007 16:17:20 GMT

Hi Everyone!

So, I wrote a wee!chester fic!! I know that this has been done before, but I figured I'd take a turn at it. There aren't too many warnings...I mean, I make mention to child prostitution, but there's nothing explicit. And of course the language issue is ever present, but beyond that....

Here you go:

Title: What Little Boys Are Made Of
Author: Emrys
Warnings/Spoilers: Language; mention of child prostitution; no spoilers
Rating: Teenagers and older.
Genre: Angst, gen
Disclaimer: Yeah, not mine, and no money.
Summary: How far will Dean go to keep Sammy protected?

What Little Boys Are Made Of

Dean can’t remember the last time they stayed in a place that was worse. He longs for the sweeping landscapes and the wide skies of the mid-Western countryside, because this, this city-living is for shit.

The air in the confining room smells like urine, sour and toxic. The air-conditioner does little to cool the place and mostly succeeds in pushing around the particles of filth that abound. Not even the water is clean, and its faint sulfurous taste is both frightening and insulting.

But the worst, the most offensive thing to bear, is the red light that blinks on and off outside the window. It blinks on and off, proclaiming the cheap hotel’s presence in too-large letters that shine and burn on Dean’s retinas, even when he draws the blinds and keeps his eyes firmly closed. It blinks on and off and bathes the room in alternating patterns of blood red and deep pitch.

The sign’s electrical buzzing sets Dean’s teeth on edge. The drone of voltage is just a tiny sound, but it’s also insidious in its own obvious way. He spends long periods of time contemplating whether or not it would be worth it to stab his eardrums through with pencils just to make the cacophonous, little noise end.

The fact that he has to keep his senses sharp does nothing to dispel the irritation brought on by the humming sign. He’s in charge, so he’s not even allowed the thought that no one is going to come through an open window on the eighth floor, the floor on which this shit-hole of a hotel room is found. No, he’s a Winchester, a hunter’s son, and neither identity allows him false refuge.

Because Dean knows that the things capable of reaching and entering the eighth floor of this building are too scary to allow for even the passing thought of comfort.

It was obvious even to Dean, that their father didn’t want to leave them on their own. But he went off anyway, leaving Dean with his eight-year old, kid brother, a firm order to stay in the room, and the assurances that he would be back in the morning.

That had been two days ago.

It wasn’t an extraordinarily long time for John Winchester to be away from his sons, even if the extra day and a half is unplanned. A hunt, an important one apparently, brought them to this city, and Dean was expecting to be ditched. It was summer, so school wasn’t a suitable baby-sitting option for Sam. Besides, this was a city. No matter how much Dean might long for a hunt, no matter how much he despised being crammed up in this god-awful room, he would never leave Sammy to face the frustrations of boredom and stifling, summer confinement on his own.

Right now, Sam’s on one of the musty beds watching some cartoon that looks sort of interesting. Dean, almost craving the camaraderie of shared interest and sibling affection, wants to join him.

But it’s out of the question, because there is no way in hell Dean’s going to give into a gut-deep wish if it threatens to make his little brother see him as even a little needy, a little weak. He’d rather be lonely. He’d rather look confident and in control. No need to clue Sammy in on how awful the situation is.

Besides, he has to fix them lunch.

oOo

Three days over due, and now it’s Friday evening. In between trying to block out the offensive hotel sign and getting Sammy to bed, Dean’s watching an episode of Quantum Leap. He likes the program, especially Al. Sammy gives him a hard time whenever the show is on though, because he can’t stop fixating on the fact that he shares first names with Doctor Beckett.

“Dean, don’t you think it’s neat? I mean maybe I could do that when—”

“Sam, get back into the bathroom and finish brushing your teeth! I’m not going to say it again!” Dean says. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Sam doesn’t listen, but he’s confident that he’ll figure something out. He’s got more than enough imagination for that.

Luckily though, Sam doesn’t test him. Just makes a face and stomps back into the bathroom with his clodhopper feet.

After a minute or two, Sam comes back into the main room. His expression is one of faint concern tinged with strong disgust.

“Dean, there’s something green growing on the outside of the bathtub. It looks sort of toxic.”

“I’ll clean it up after you get to bed,” Dean informs his charge.

“Dean, do you suppose that the water tastes like that because a demon used to live here? Maybe it left that green goo to get us. Maybe we should try calling Dad again,” Sam suggests.

Dean feels a stab of frustration brought on by the situation. He knows that there’s no demon, at least he’s pretty sure there isn’t. But he’s worried about Dad and so’s Sam. All afternoon, Sam’s been searching for excuses to call their father. Dean hasn’t had the heart to tell him that he’s tried to do just that three times already, but the number their dad left with them is disconnected. In a sudden fit of worry, Dean even tried to call Pastor Jim, but the good father never answered the phone. Dean didn’t leave a message on the man’s answering machine though, because his father being late wasn’t really an emergency. He doesn’t want to be caught over-reacting, and their dad would tan his hide for sure if he asked an outsider for help when it wasn’t entirely necessary.

“There’s no demon,” he says, and pulls down the worn bedcovers. “Get in bed. It’s late.”

Sam pulls a face, but he listens anyway. Dean draws the sheet up over the kid’s shoulders but leaves the blankets at the foot of the bed. It’s still warm in the room, but Sam’s never been able to sleep without something covering him.

“Wake me up if you need anything,” Dean says.

“’Kay, Dean. ‘Night,” Sam says sleepily.

And then Sam’s sound asleep, and Dean’s alone with his thoughts.

The room is bathed red and black and red and black. Within the shimmying light, the television flickers and glows.

oOo

They ran out of food on Saturday morning, and it’s late Sunday afternoon now. Dean saw this coming but hoped their father would be home before having to deal with it. He was obviously deluding himself, but that’s over now. He calls Pastor Jim again after Sam complains that he’s hungry. There’s still no answer, and this time, after a brief hesitation, Dean leaves a message. He wants to call someone else, but there isn’t anyone. John Winchester is too strong-headed to make many friends, and half of those he has want to shoot him or at least smash his face in with their fists. The other half are unknown to Dean, so he has no way to contact them even if he wants to.

He calls the contact number their father gave him, but it’s still only a recorded voice that answers and dispassionately explains that the number has been disconnected. He slams the phone down in a sudden fit of anger and stares at it while he mulls over their options.

“Dean?”

It’s Sam, and he’s looking scared. Looking like a little kid who’s hungry and who doesn’t belong in this piss-poor situation.

“Don’t worry, Sammy. Everything’s going to be fine,” Dean says. And because he says it, Sam believes it. Mostly.

Making a decision, Dean stands up a little too quickly. He has to place a hand against a wall to steady himself as a wave of dizziness sweeps over him. He’s hungry too and hasn’t actually eaten since Friday morning, because he was trying to extend their resources for Sammy. All he’s had for two days is the sulfurous water that both scares and nauseates him.

“Dean?”

Sam’s beside him quicker than Dean can register it. His little brother reaches up and clasps his arm.

“Dean, you okay?” Sam asks, and now the kid’s practically panicked.

Dean shrugs off Sam’s hand.

“Don’t be such a girl, Sam. I’m just a little tired is all,” Dean says with forced irritation. It’s a lame response, but it’s all his deprived brain can come up with.

“Maybe you should take a nap,” Sam suggests, trying to be helpful.

“I said I was a little tired. That doesn’t mean that I’m ready for the old folks’ home,” Dean says sharply. His head suddenly clears, and he pushes away from the wall. “Geez, a nap! You’re such an idiot!”

Dean’s aware that his reaction isn’t completely on par with his normal techniques of distraction, because it’s obvious that Sam’s confused as to whether he should be worried or angry. To clarify things, Dean pushes the kid out of the way and walks around the bed to the closet. He glances up just in time to catch Sam stick his tongue out at him and figures that he’s succeeded in sparing his little brother any further feelings of concern.

He blatantly ignores the insult of Sam’s protruding tongue, opens the closet door, then pulls out their dad’s bag and unzips it without hesitation.

“Dad says we’re not supposed to go through his stuff,” Sam petulantly says from where he’s planted himself on his bed.

“What do you care?” Dean throws the words over his shoulder and then chooses to ignore his brother.

Instead, he searches through the pockets of the few clothes their father left behind. The first pair of jeans yields nothing, as does the second, and Dean’s starting to feel the stirrings of utter desperation as he turns his efforts to the bottom of the bag. Luck’s on their side, because stuffed in one corner is a fiver. Five whole dollars, and Dean wants to weep with relief.

He clutches the crumpled bill in his hand and silently thanks their missing father for his uncharacteristic bout of carelessness. Five dollars isn’t much, but Dean knows how to stretch a dollar thin. The money will get them through another day, at least.

“C’mon, Sammy. We’re going out.”

Sam scrambles off the bed, and his expression is one of amazement coupled with the stirrings of shared mischief.

“We’re going out?” he asks. Dean notes that Sam’s careful not to mention their father’s commands.

“Yeah,” he says, as his stomach roils with the resolution that has forced him into disobeying orders.

He’s just glad that it’s still a little too early for the flickering hotel sign to mock his failure.

oOo

There’s a small market right down the street; Dean knows because he saw it on their way into the city. He and Sammy step out onto the busy sidewalk, and Dean feels the nervousness that country boys experience when forced into unknown metropolitan environments. He pushes the uncomfortable feeling down and grabs his brother’s hand.

“C’mon, let’s go,” he says with authority. Sam stumbles over his own feet as Dean pulls him in an unexpected direction.

“Hey!” Sam yells, affronted.

“Keep up and stay close,” Dean says in response. The city air smells worse outside than it did in the hotel room, and he makes a concerted attempt not to wrinkle his nose in disgust.

They make it to the market without incident and with only a few, uninterested looks thrown in their direction. Dean breathes a sigh of relief when he enters the store, because even though it’s a temporary refuge, it’s safer than being outside.

There’s an Asian lady behind the counter who looks at them strangely and says something sharp-edged and high-toned in her native language. Dean ignores her and Sam seems to be oblivious to her. Dean grasps the five-dollar bill tightly in his fist and then moves to the back of the market to find what he needs. He pulls on Sammy’s hand and the kid, whose eyes are on the paperback books held in a squeaky, wire shelf contraption that moves in circles, is pulled along again.

“Dean, I want to see—”

“C’mon, Sam. We need to hurry.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but it’s clear he’s not happy. Dean understands why. After three days stuck in that awful room, he also wants to prolong this time outside. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t forget what happened the last time he gave into such temptations. So, with memories of a shtriga whispering in his mind, he tightens his grip on his little brother’s hand and moves faster.

He buys a package of bologna and a loaf of bread. At the counter, Sam stares greedily at a candy bar, and Dean’s got just enough money left over to get it for him. Sam smiles broadly when it’s handed over, rips open the wrapper and greedily gobbles the chocolate down. Dean feels affection for his brother wrap around him, and he pats Sam’s head in a clumsy attempt to demonstrate his feelings. Sam looks up, and this time his smile is smeared with melted chocolate.

“Thanks, Dean.”

“No problem,” he says, and returns the smile.

The woman behind the counter says something that sounds like gibberish, but which is probably the equivalent to, “Get the hell out.” Dean nods politely in her direction and then exits the store, brother in tow.

“Dean, do we have to go back right away?” Sam asks, licking his chocolate coated fingers and tripping over his elephant feet. The sound of his tennis shoes slapping against the cement sidewalk echoes within the tight corridor of tall buildings through which they are traveling. It makes Dean want to laugh and cry at the same time.

“No, Sam. You know we need to get back,” Dean says, while steadying the klutz with one hand and balancing the small bag of groceries with the other.

“Why?”

“’Cause Dad doesn’t want us out.”

“Why do we always have to do what he says?”

“Because he’s our dad, Sammy.”

“Well, he’s not here. And it’s a stupid rule, Dean. How can he expect us to stay cooped up in that room all this time? It’s too much.”

Right now, Dean thinks of the shtriga again. Later, many years later on a dark day when Sam storms out and goes away from them, Dean will recognize this conversation as the beginning of an inevitable but unpredicted ending.

“Besides,” Sam continues his tirade in a voice that is suddenly strident, “we’re out now, and we aren’t supposed to be. Why can’t we just stay out a little longer?”

“Just shut up, Sam. We’re going back.”

“But, Dean—”

“I said shut up, Sammy!” Dean yells a little too loudly, and people are looking at them now. The sky is darkening with the blush of an early summertime evening, and he regrets not doing the shopping earlier in the day. With effort and a mental count to ten, he pushes down his irritation. He’s hungry, and he knows that Sam is too; they’ve also been stuck together in close quarters for too long, and it’s starting to get on both of their nerves.

“C’mon, Sam,” he says, injecting gentleness into his tone. “Let’s get back and eat something.”

He sees the resentment empty from Sam’s face, and the goofy grin from before returns.

“’Kay, Dean. Sorry,” the goob says.

Dean smiles wistfully and guides them back to the hotel.

oOo

In the growing glow of the hotel light that is eight stories above them, Dean pauses. He glances up at the small piece of sky that he is able to see between tall buildings and wants to stay outside for just a little while longer, despite the stink and the strangeness of the city.

The memory of the shtriga stirs again, and he’s about to force himself back into the dungeon that is their current home when Sam pulls on his hand.

“Dean, who’re those kids over there?” Sam asks, innocently pointing in the direction of some boys who are slinking across the street.

Dean’s seen boys like these before; they’re in every city he’s ever been to. They’re always easy to spot, especially in the parts of town where the Winchesters can afford to stay. Rangy and desperate looking, they wear clothes that are too tight and take drives with men in expensive cars.

In a vague, disconnected way, Dean knows that these boys are synonymous with sex. He’s not sure of the mechanics of it, but he knows that money is involved somehow. He’s seen the wads of bills that the careless ones flaunt after coming back from the car rides.

He can’t quite understand why it’s only ever men that they drive away with and isn’t sure that he really wants to know the reasons.

He’d understand more, maybe, if he were allowed to talk to these boys, but he’s been strictly forbidden from doing so. In John Winchester’s book, this rule is pretty high up on the list.

“Nobody, Sammy,” Dean says in answer to Sam’s question. And then, because the youngest Winchester is a little too clever for his own good he adds, “You just mind your own business and don’t worry about ‘em.”

“Okay, Dean,” Sam says. Now that Dean’s back in the kid’s good graces, he knows that Sam will do anything he says. At least for a little while.

Dean smiles, and the two of them walk into the hotel together. As he enters the building that currently feels like a prison to him, Dean thinks about the measly loaf of bread and the package of bologna in the bag he’s carrying. He glances back once, briefly, at the boys strutting across the street and feels slightly nauseous. Returning back to the hotel room could account for his discomfort, but it doesn’t, not really.

And Dean’s not entirely sure what does.

oOo

By Monday evening, Dean realizes that the bread and bologna aren’t going to last long, not when Sammy eats like a goddamned horse. Stupid jerk is going to be taller than Dean by the time he’s ten.

He shoves this unpleasant thought aside, but it’s only replaced by others that are even more unpleasant. Replaced by thoughts that murmur and make him nervous. Thoughts that buzz in time with the exasperating hotel sign and remind him that he’s tried to call Dad three times during the day, each with no result. Thoughts that remind him that calling Pastor Jim was still met with the unwelcome response of an answering machine. And now Dean’s not only worried about Sammy, but about his father and the pastor as well.

He hasn’t felt quite so alone in a very long time.

Currently he’s looking out the window, down at the boys who are across the street. He watches as they are picked up by men and returned, seemingly none the worse for wear.

“Dean?” Sam asks with hesitation tingeing his voice.

“Huh?” Dean responds, without taking his eyes off the boys outside.

“Dean, did you eat today?” Sam asks.

The worry is back in Sam’s voice, and it’s just not supposed to be there. Dean turns his face away from the street below to concentrate on making his baby brother feel all right again.

“Yeah, yeah, Sammy. I ate earlier,” he says. It’s a lie, but he’s not about to let his kid brother know that he’s holding back from eating again so that there’s enough for the eight-year old.

Sam doesn’t look convinced, so Dean decides to distract him with a question he knows the answer to.

“You hungry, Sam? I’ll make you a sandwich.”

Sam seems to consider this question carefully; he bites his lip a few times and then his fingernails. Dean knows the kid’s smart and wonders when the jerk is going to start seeing through his big brother’s distractions. When that time comes, Dean’s life is going to get substantially harder.

But luckily, that time’s not now.

“Yeah. Yeah, Dean. I’m sorta hungry,” Sam admits.

Dean reaches forward and ruffles Sam’s hair.

“How’s bologna sound to you?” he asks, with a wry smile twisting his face.

Sam expression is one of mutual irony.

“Delicious,” he announces, and his stomach rumbles loudly.

Dean finds it in himself to laugh a little bit, but the bright sound dies on his lips as he takes one last, long look at the boys outside on the nighttime street.

oOo

Sometime in the middle of Wednesday night, Sam cries in his sleep, and Dean is again forced to consider making an unhappy, but possibly necessary, decision. He’s been staring at the boys walking the streets in front of the hotel for quite some time now, all the while thinking furiously. His shoulder is scratched up from where he’s been itching the skin in an unconscious effort to relieve stress.

He sighs heavily and absently scratches his shoulder again before dizzily wandering to Sam’s bedside. Once there, he rubs the distressed boy’s back, strokes his hair, and does all the usual things that settle his little brother back into sleep.

None of his tricks are working this time though, because Sam rolls over, opens his eyes, and blearily peers up at Dean.

“’M hungry, Dean,” Sam murmurs, still mostly asleep.

With his brother’s muttered words, Dean feels a wave of exhaustion pass over him. His stomach is a gnawing monster that he can’t possibly ignore for much longer. And he’s overwhelmed by the knowledge that Sam is probably feeling the same aching hunger, but there’s nothing that can be done about it. Guilt batters him, because he’s too aware of how badly he’s doing his job; how he’s not taking care of Sam.

“You need to rest, Sam. Save your energy,” Dean instructs, and this isn’t a lie, especially if the way Dean’s feeling is any indication of how Sam is.

“Alright, Dean,” Sam grudgingly says. He’s almost instantly asleep again the moment he rolls back over onto his side.

Dean pulls the ratty blankets up over Sam’s shoulders but doesn’t return to the window or go to his own bed. Instead, he sits next to his sleeping brother and gently strokes the too long curls on the kid’s head. As he offers comfort to Sam, he considers that maybe a little conversation is in order; a forbidden conversation with those boys out there on the street. He thinks that maybe Sammy’s right, and they can’t afford to listen to their vanished father right now.

Dean wonders if desperation is plastered all over his face as deeply as it is on the street kids. He wonders if it’s wrong to disobey a father when the situation is dire, and the rules aren’t working anymore.

Because he knows, knows, that there’s money—maybe a lot of it—to be gained in the company of those other desperate boys. Knows, because he’s always been a bright kid, hell-bent on survival.

So he thinks, and wonders, and knows as he comforts a sleeping child. Thinks, and wonders, and decides as the mocking hotel sign slowly morphs into red-black menace.

oOo

“Stay here, Sammy,” Dean says as he pulls his jacket on over a t-shirt that’s a little too small for him. The world around him is a blur of slow starvation, and he can barely move without stumbling. It occurs to him that if things work out the way he’s planned them, he’ll be at the mercy of a complete stranger because he sure as hell isn’t in any condition to take on a flea not to mention some full-grown ogre of a guy.

Clenching his jaw and closing his eyes, he resolutely pushes that thought away. Nausea is a tight ball in his stomach that momentarily replaces the clawing creature that’s been living in his gut for some time now, and he just wants this nightmare to end. As soon as possible. Right now.

“Where’re you going, Dean?” Sam asks. There’s a wobble in the kid’s voice that has Dean mildly alarmed, but he’s too fatigued to do much about it.

“Goin’ out,” Dean says, and waves in the general direction of the window and the nighttime sky.

Suddenly Sam’s latched onto him, arms encircled around his waist, large, puppy, eyes brimming with tears.

“No, Dean. You don’t have to. Dad’ll be back soon. Stay here with me. Don’t go out there.” The words are a tumble of worry and fear, and Dean still doesn’t know what to do about them or how it is that Sam’s sensing that something wrong is going on. All he knows is that any other option is a bad one right now, and this is the only one that’s going to see Sammy through to a brighter side.

“Sam, it’s all right,” he says. He’s been saying that a lot lately, and yet things still aren’t all right. And really, it doesn’t look like they’re going to get better anytime soon.

“Dean, please. Don’t leave me here all alone. You’re not supposed to. Dad said so,” Sam pleads, and he’s so obviously on the verge of sobbing that Dean bends down and hugs him.

“It’s okay, I promise, Sam. I’m just going to be outside. Just lock the door when I leave, and don’t let anyone in who’s not me,” he says, then adds, “or Dad.”

Sam starts crying, and clutches Dean tightly. Dean fights his own fear and wooziness and manages to slowly pry his little brother’s arms off.

He makes a relatively fast move toward the door and has it opened and then closed behind him before Sam can get at him again. He locks the door behind him, and can’t help but hear Sam’s small body flinging itself against the barrier that is now between them.

“Dean!” Sam yells in a feral, gut-wrenching way.

Dean steps away from the door and heads toward the stairwell that will lead to the street below.

oOo

He’s standing on the street corner outside the hotel, trying not to look up at the eighth floor to their room where Sammy is. He’s standing with the other boys, and he’s struggling to look like he belongs even though everything inside him is screaming that he doesn’t.

He’s the new kid, and he knows what that means, knows what others will do to survive. So when the boys taunt him, he ignores them. But when one steps too close and swaggers threateningly, he shows them that he’s a hunter’s son.

They stay clear of him after that, and he catches what might be grudging respect on a few of their faces when he chances quick glimpses at them. He’s not really interested in what they think of him, but he’d like to talk to them so that they can clue him into what he’s doing. He wants one of them to tell him what to do, because he really doesn’t know anymore.

He decides to give it a few minutes, give himself some time to settle down. He shoves his hands in his pockets, because they’re shaking wildly. The sound of his rapid heartbeat echoes in his head, and as the edges of his world gray, he wonders if he’s finally going to pass out from the hunger. But then one of the wilder kids steps forward again, and he stubbornly pushes away the fuzziness.

The worst thing he could do right now is show weakness. He can’t let them know how scared and worn out he is. So he glares at the teenager who is looking too eager for a fight even with the display of strength Dean showed earlier, and the jerk backs off. Dean smirks at the little bit of fear he sees in the other boy’s face.

He’s suddenly cold despite the heat of the summer evening. He stalks up and down the sidewalk in the hope of restoring some level of warmth to his body, but it’s not working. He continues to walk anyway in an unconscious attempt to level off his anxiousness.

A low car, a yellow sedan, sidles up beside him. It’s suddenly even colder, and he shivers before stepping forward and cautiously peering into the passenger window in the same way he’s seen the other boys doing. He opens his mouth to speak but doesn’t know what to say.

The man inside the car grins in an unpleasant way. Even in the dim light, Dean can tell that the guy’s teeth are tobacco stained and crooked. There’s a glint in the man’s eyes that’s almost demonic.

He’s the scariest thing Dean’s ever seen in his life.

“Lookin’ for a ride, kid?” the guy asks in a suggestive voice that rolls like black oil through the air. Alarmed, Dean takes a step away from the car. But as dizziness lays into him, he’s forced to grip the passenger door. His hands immediately feel contaminated, and the wild thing in his stomach tries to claw its way out. Again, he thinks about how the same monster sits in Sammy’s stomach, and it’s this awareness that gives him the strength to straighten up and nod to the freak in the car.

“Good. Good, kid,” the guy says with that thick and oozing voice. He leans over the wide car and opens the door for Dean.

Dean’s bladder is suddenly and unbearably full. At the same time, his mouth is unaccountably dry and tastes like the sulfur water he’s been drinking for a week. He tries his best to ignore these minor discomforts as he reaches for the door. He takes a step forward, and the guy’s grin broadens until it’s practically reptilian.

“DEAN!”

The voice is a whip-crack of command that has Dean immediately turning around and away from the open car door.

“Dad?” he asks in a thin voice, as his father steps out of the warm summer night and something in the world abruptly shifts and is normal again.

“Do we have a problem, Dean?” his dad asks sternly, and eyes the yellow sedan meaningfully.

“N-no, Dad. No problem,” Dean stutters, but he’s only answering out of habit. In fact, there’s a pretty good chance that a problem is exactly what they have, because the man in the car is reaching toward him, stretching out to grab his arm and pull him inside. But Dean’s so dumbstruck by his father’s presence that he can’t budge even to defend himself.

John moves so fast, Dean is reminded of a tiger he once saw attacking a gazelle on a nature program. It’s as if his dad is liquid fury, and as he passes Dean to slam the car door closed and grabs the freak’s hand in a crushing grip, Dean feels small and unworthy, but protected all the same.

John says something—Dean doesn’t know what—and the guy takes off with a pealing of tires that could be a display of either anger or fear. Dean doesn’t care which it is, because the only thing that’s important is that his dad is here. Here. Right now. Right here and right now, and things are as okay as they’ve ever been before.

John turns to face his son, and Dean can’t read his expression because it’s changing so fast. He thinks he sees anger and fear, but then it’s all replaced by something that may be a deep sorrow.

“Dean, what’s going on?” John asks.

And then, because he’s just been so desperate, so afraid, and so worried about Sam, Dean wordlessly rushes forward and snakes an arm around his father’s waist. He buries his face in John’s shoulder, seeking comfort. He finds it in the familiar aromas of strong whisky, dark earth, and smoked bones which make up John Winchester’s signature scent.

It takes him a while to realize that his dad is stroking his hair and telling him about the hunt.

“Fucking fairies tricked me,” John mutters so that only Dean can hear him.

Dean’s shocked for a moment, because he can’t believe that this entire nightmare has been about fairies. Fairies, for Christ’s sake! He’s not sure he can stand it as his stomach cramps with hunger. Frustration builds and suddenly there’s the stinging pressure of moisture behind his eyes and a crushing ache in his throat. He’s barely, barely able to force his emotion and pain down and away.

But somehow he manages, because when he steps away from his dad, he doesn’t even have to wipe at his eyes.

Not once.

“They threw water in my face, and I ended up swallowing some accidentally,” John reports with mild irritation.

Still feeling the remnants of that distracting burn behind his eyes, Dean nods. Every hunter knows that you never eat or drink anything touched by a fairy’s hands. It empowered them in dangerous ways, allowed them access to a person’s mind and will.

It even gave them a way to manipulate a person’s perspective of time.

“Felt like only a few hours, Dean. You guys okay? It’s been a week,” John asks, with no remorse in his tone.

“Fine. We’re fine,” Dean says. He sees the Impala parked across the street and wonders how he could have missed its gentle rumble when his father drove it through the city traffic.

“You sure?’ John asks again, and Dean knows it’s the only hint of concern that his dad is apt to give.

“Yeah, yeah, Dad. We’re good,” he says.

His father stares searchingly at Dean only for a moment, trying to flush out what he knows is an untruth. But this is a game that Dean knows how to play well, and he smears a look of pure innocence on his face as he looks his father directly in the eyes.

Even with all of the evidence that contradicts Dean’s reassurances, John seems satisfied after a while, and he steers Dean off the sidewalk and toward the hotel. Dean stumbles a bit, and he’s not sure if it’s from relief or the weakness of extreme hunger. His dad clasps his shoulder and supports him until he’s steady again.

“I tried to call Pastor Jim,” Dean says, as they both make their way through the traffic that is still heavy even at this time of night.

“Didn’t get him, did you, kiddo?” John asks. Dean shakes his head as they dodge a slow moving taxi. His father’s acting casual, but Dean knows that John’s smart enough to pick up on the worry that his son’s feeling. “Yeah, Jim’s out of the country for two weeks. Didn’t think to tell you, since I was only supposed to be gone overnight. I had this pegged as an easy gig. Important, but easy. Guess I was wrong.”

And because John rarely, if ever, admits to being wrong, in this moment when Dean realizes that this is something his dad needs forgiveness for, he gives it.

“Did you get the fairies, Dad?” he asks. His voice is a broken croak, but if his father notices, he doesn’t show it.

“You don’t exactly ‘get’ fairies, son,” John replies with surprisingly little reproach for Dean’s ignorance. He smiles gently and puts a hand on his oldest son’s shoulder again. It steadies Dean, and John maintains the comforting contact as they reach the hotel doors. “But they won’t be hurting anyone, anytime soon. I made sure of that.”

Dean grins, and with something akin to happiness looks up at the eighth floor. If he squints, he thinks he can see Sammy sitting in the window and looking down at them. His smile widens, and when his eyes catch on the blinking red of the hotel sign, he almost laughs out loud.

Fic: A Point on the Horizon's Thin Line

Sat, 06 Jan 2007 22:28:50 GMT

This is a missing scene from the episode "Faith." Had to write it, because, well, I'm just obsessed with that episode!

It's been a while since I've posted to lj, so here's hoping I remember how to do a lj-cut. I don't know about you, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Warnings for language, but nothing more than that.

A Point on the Horizon’s Thin Line

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

‘O welcome, pure-ey’d Faith, white-handed Hope, Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings.’
~~John Bartlett

‘Like strength is felt from hope and from despair.’
~~Alexander Pope

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The road spreads open before the dark car as it chases a distant point in the sky. Tearing across the countryside and eating up terrain, the machine rides fast. Rides fast in its trek across hot asphalt in this great race against the sun and time.

The car is speeding its way towards a place called Nebraska, the distant residence of hope.

Sam finds hope to be an elusive thing, but if forced to describe it, he’d self-consciously admit that he has always envisioned it as a light and beatific being; one that is weightless and beyond reach. If forced to describe hope, he’d do so with downcast eyes, because he wouldn’t want anyone to observe the desire that would be found there in his gaze; the desire and abject need for any speck of hope that seems to so rarely bless their hopeless lives.

Sam sees the place where the horizon kisses the sky and doesn’t know if that is the spot where hope lives or dies. For now he can only bear to think that hope plays in that thin line on the horizon. Hope plays and dances and maybe even sings there a little bit.

Sammy’s got no choice but to think that it’s hope’s birthplace way up there in the distance. He’s got no choice, because he’s betting everything on a mite speck of hope.

Everything. And that means his brother.

Sam glances towards the passenger seat as the sun shifts, and the light shines painfully in his eyes. For a brief moment, he can’t catch sight of Dean, and then when he does, his sleeping brother is doused in light. In this moment, Dean looks ethereal and angelic, and Sam feels a waver in his control over the terror that he’s been holding at bay ever since he found his brother in a puddle of water. But then the sun slides again, as the car speeds around a gentle curve in the road, and it’s just Dean sitting in the passenger seat.

Just Dean who is too pale, and who isn’t exactly sitting but slumping. Dean who is wearing three layers of clothing, and who has a blanket tucked around his shoulders on what is a slowly cooling but still warm day. Dean, whose chest rises and falls too quickly and too deeply, and who can’t seem to catch his breath anymore.

Dean, a hero who saved two kids from one of the things that bumps loudly in the night, and a hunter whose fierce skill is rivaled only by their absentee father’s. Dean, Sam’s larger-than-life brother who has been reduced to this weak person who falls asleep mid-sentence, and whose dedicated heart is stumbling its way across the country’s landscape along with Sam.

Sam looks away from all the things that Dean was and is, and there are tears in his eyes that blur the road ahead of him and make it hard to see that place where he still needs to believe hope thrives.

He can’t see clearly, but nevertheless, he won’t allow the car to lose speed.

It continues its race with time and drives forward into Sam’s hope.

oOo

Sammy’s calling for him, and he sounds worried to the point of fear. Dean feels a gentle hand tap his shoulder, and the combined stimuli of his little brother’s touch and voice help him to pull himself out of wherever he was. When he manages to open his eyes, the light is strange. White and soft like feathers. He blinks his eyes, and feels their heavy weights settle closed again, but Sammy’s voice calls him back from the velvet edge of sleep.

He slowly re-opens his eyes, and now Sam’s face is only inches away from his.

“Dean? C’mon, you’ve got to eat something,” Sam says, and his eyebrows draw up into a characteristic triangle of worry, hope, and fear.

Dean’s brain is working slowly, and he doesn’t quite understand what Sam is saying. He stares dully at his brother for what is apparently a moment too long, and Sam grabs his shoulder in a tighter, more possessive way.

“Dean? You with me here?”

“Huh? Yeah, yeah, I’m with you,” Dean whispers, but the sentiment comes mostly from intuition and has very little to do with him truly understanding the situation.

“C’mon, food,” Sam says bluntly and then briskly exits the car through the driver’s side door. Dean blinks as he tries to make sense of his brother’s sudden disappearance. He peers through the windshield, and as Sam crosses his line of vision he sees the red neon sign flashing the word ‘DINER’ in big, gaudy letters.

Sam’s words make sense now, and even though Dean would prefer to stay here in the Impala to sleep, he exerts aching muscles and bones in a fumbled attempt to open the car door. He’s not hungry, but Sam must be, and some instinctual part of Dean knows his little brother won’t eat if Dean doesn’t at least make an attempt to do the same.

So he allows Sam his folly of hope and tries to open the door. His fingers slip, and the damaged muscles in his arm scream with pain.

He ignores the agonizing sensation, because Sam’s suddenly there, opening the door for him. Dean has a moment to wonder when the world around him got stuck on fast-forward before Sam bends down and begins to reach for him.

Sam pulls at Dean’s arm, and Dean makes a tremendous effort to transform his yelp of pain into a growl of aggravated disgust. His arms hurt so badly that he can barely move them above the level of his heart without searing pain washing over him. But he doesn’t want Sammy to know about that, so he acts gruff and disapproving to cover his weakness.

Sammy doesn’t know a lot of things the doctor in the hospital made Dean privy to; doesn’t know, because Dean demanded privacy out of his physician and allowed Sam to know only the barest of details. The rest Dean hides.

For instance, he’s hiding the fact that the outer layer of most of his bones has been scorched, and that his muscles are slowly breaking down and pouring out into his bloodstream. He’s also hiding the fact that his chest pains him to the point of being unbearable, and that he’s having difficulty seeing anything all that clearly. He’s trying to hide the fact that his right eardrum has a hole in it, and that he’s having trouble hearing out of that ear. But after mistakenly thinking Sam wanted to pick a fight when in actuality he was just making sure his feeble brother was all right, Dean’s pretty sure Sammy’s catching on to the whole practically deaf in one ear thing.

He’s especially hiding the fact that there was a very slim possibility a transplant would have been a viable option, because for Dean the thought of spending two more weeks in the hospital for the small chance that he’d end up frittering away the remainder of his life on medications and being at the mercy of doctors is untenable. Dean’s feelings about this trip to see a specialist are complicated by this fact, but he can’t exactly conceal the reality of a heart specialist from Sam when Sam’s the one that found the doc in the first place.

Besides, Sam would be really upset if he knew Dean feels okay with the reality of his dying; that despite the essential fucked-up’edness of the situation, dying so two little kids and Sammy could continue living is perfectly acceptable. Yeah, Sam would be upset if he knew how Dean feels about imminent death, and so Dean’s willing to barter a little difficulty against a bit of his brother’s pain by playing along.

And so that’s what he does now. He plays along by walking into the diner on unsteady legs and sitting heavily in a booth. He plays along by ordering a cup of chicken noodle soup from a waitress whose general demeanor is one of dull limpness. And when Sam appears heartened by his brother’s agreeable nature and his readiness to order food, Dean thinks it’s worth all the energy that leaches out of him during this task of playing along.

When it is finally brought to him by the droopy looking waitress, he wraps his hands around the mug of soup and revels in the simple pleasure of warm fingers. His extremities, hell, practically every bit of him, have been ice-cold since the accident. He feels the diner’s other patrons staring holes in him, and their eyes burn almost as badly as the 100,000 volts did. Their openly observing eyes scan over his wasting frame, and there is a little fear behind the burn. Dean wants to tell them that what he has isn’t catching, and that in fact he’s not going to be around much longer to remind them of their own mortality. He wants to tell them everything is alright, yessir, it’s all damn peachy, so they can stop gaping whenever the hell they like.

Instead, he straightens up and offers a classic devil-may-care smile to the gawking, conservatively dressed couple sitting at the table beside his and his brother’s booth. But he’s still tired and can’t keep the façade up for long. Instead, he eventually settles for staring into the depths of the chicken and noodle concoction that he has absolutely no intention of consuming.

“Dean, you need to eat. You have to keep your strength up,” Sam admonishes softly.

Dean wants to scream, “What for?!” because, really, what is the sense? But Sam’s earnest expression prods him to clumsily spoon a mouthful of the salty broth down his throat. It settles badly in his stomach, but another solemn look from Sam drives him to take one more sip.

He feels sweat break out on his forehead as his stomach turns, but he manages to keep the second mouthful down. He’s being warned; however, that on no uncertain terms will his body stand for further ingestion of soup or of anything else for that matter.

“Just a little more,” Sam pleads, and Dean notices that his brother has not touched a single crumb of his own meal.

“Eat your sandwich, Sammy,” Dean commands in the familiar tone of someone used to looking out for children.

He moves to politely set his spoon down on the aluminum rimmed table, but the aching joints in his hand rebel. The utensil drops with a loud, obnoxious, clatter.

“Sorry,” he whispers as Sam painfully swallows his first and only bite of grilled cheese.

oOo

Two hours ago, Dean grunted Sam’s name, and when Sam turned to look, he saw desperation in a sweating and too pale face. He pulled the car over, and before he could stop him, Dean opened the passenger door and fell out of the car to land face first in the dry scraggles of grass that comprised the side of the road.

Dean hawked up the two whole mouthfuls of soup he had managed to cram down at lunch, and then continued vomiting until he was spitting out only yellow bile and was breathing far too raggedly. Sam comforted his brother through the spasms and harsh gulps for air. He held him steady when one of the desperate inhalations turned into a painful sob, and he tried to ignore the bleakness bleeding from Dean’s eyes when his brother endeavored to share it with him. He tried to ignore it still while carefully gathering his weak brother into his arms, bundling him back in the car, and continuing on with their journey. Tried to ignore it, because the fact that Dean was willing to reveal such desolation means Sam’s big brother is all right with dying.

Sam tried to stop the insidious, persisting thought that maybe Dean thinks he deserves this painful ending, that maybe Dean thinks the lives of two young children are more than a fair exchange for his own. Back in that space of time when Sam held his brother through painful convulsions, back then when the sun was shining and he could still see the bright horizon, it was easier for Sam to halt the niggling thought.

But now, as they near the Nebraska state line, it starts to rain. It’s nothing but a cold, gray mist, but it depresses Sam. He doesn’t know why the gentle shower evokes such emotion until he realizes he can no longer clearly see that point on the horizon that has kept him sane for this entire trip.

He tries not to take it as a bad sign that hope’s home and birthplace has become obscured to his needful sight. Instead, he turns to study his brother with quick furtive glances toward the road in between moments of growing despair.

Dean looks as dreary and gray as the drizzle of water that falls from the sky around them. The hollows in his face deepened just in the few hours since they left the diner, and his breathing is faster and rougher than it was before. Dean’s eyes are turned away and directed towards the water streaked glass of the window, so it’s impossible to tell if he’s awake now or sleeping again.

All Sam does know is that any light that may have been left in his brother after the accident is gone. Gone just like the light on the horizon.

Sam has never been one to believe in omens, but he can’t seem to stop seeing them everywhere right now.
He swallows heavily, and tries to hold back the tears that are suddenly threatening to seep from his eyes. A few wayward drops of moisture escape his control, but he wipes them away contritely.

He can’t allow himself the release of this grief, because if he does who will carry the heavy burden of hope that must be managed? Dean can’t or won’t—either way it doesn’t matter—, and not even their father will release Sam from this weight. So Sam has no choice but to carry it alone. There’s just no one else.

In the past, Sam, with downcast eyes, would have reluctantly admitted that he has always pictured hope as a light and airy creature, smiling and dancing in sunshine. If forced to, he would have said that he’s always thought of hope as something happy and positive, despite its elusiveness.

But now, right now when he’s racing a car towards the horizon and when the sound of his brother’s jagged breathing is louder than the engine’s fearsome roar, right now, all Sam would be able to say is that he just wonders how hope got to be so damn heavy.

GenFic: What's Left (Companion Piece to my "There's Only the Here and Now.")

Thu, 12 Oct 2006 02:46:51 GMT

Title: What’s Left

Author: Emrys

Warning/Spoilers: Minor spoilers for “Dead in the Water,” and “Faith.” MAJOR spoilers for “In My Time of Dying,” and “Everybody Loves a Clown.” Also, and as usual, there’s a language warning attached to this fic.

Rating: Older teens can safely read this, if they’re okay with the language.

Genre: Genfic; big ole helping of Dean angst.

Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and to Eric Kripke.

Summary: Companion piece to my other fic, “There’s Only the Here and Now,” but you don’t have to read that to know what’s going on here.

If you want to read "There's Only the Here and Now," you can find it here:

There's Only the Here and Now .

Here's the lj-cut to "What's Left":

Title: What’s Left
Author: Emrys
Warning/Spoilers: Minor spoilers for “Dead in the Water,” and “Faith.” MAJOR spoilers for “In My Time of Dying,” and “Everybody Loves a Clown.” Also, and as usual, there’s a language warning attached to this fic.
Rating: Older teens can safely read this, if they’re okay with the language.
Genre: Genfic; big ole helping of Dean angst.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and to Eric Kripke.
Summary: Companion piece to my other fic, “There’s Only the Here and Now,” but you don’t have to read that to know what’s going on here.

What’s Left

At first, Sam is so wrapped up in his own grief, that he doesn’t notice something is seriously wrong with Dean. And it isn’t as if Dean isn’t talking. He is. He talks when Sam needs him, when Sam’s grief is so rending that Dean apparently feels the need to intercede and does so by whispering quiet words of comfort.

But as the moments between devastating bouts of sorrow become longer, as Sam grows accustomed to the idea that his father no longer inhabits the Earth, it becomes more and more apparent that Dean has stopped talking.

Sam remembers the time when they were in Wisconsin and Dean told little Lucas Barr how, so long ago, he had stopped talking when their mother had been killed. As he stuffs away his own mournful thoughts about how their father had still been alive when the two of them had been in Lake Manitoc, Sam also wonders if this not talking of Dean’s is the same thing he had experienced as a motherless four-year old.

He hopes that Dean’s okay but knows he isn’t when every query into his brother’s mental state is met with a growled, “I’m fine, Sam. Leave me alone.” And Sam knows his brother well enough to realize that this cavalier response and attitude is total crap. If Dean would just acknowledge any sort of reaction to their father’s death, Sam wouldn’t worry. Even an “I’ll be fine, Sam,” would do; would be the least means of insinuating that he isn’t fine right now. But for Dean to continue the claim that he is immune to their father’s death, well, that’s just damn dangerous.

So, hoping to break through walls, Sam finds a job for them, and together they discover a roadhouse, two women, a genius named Ash, and a killer clown that they send packing with his big, creepy clown shoes in hand. And Dean talks, and seems a little more animated throughout the entire hunt, but still refuses—abjectly—to speak about anything important. To top it all off, after they both have shared something real for the first time in days, Dean returns to the Impala and spends too much time working on her and ignoring the bigger, snarling problems that need unraveling. Works and avoids and stops talking just as he had before Sam sent them hunting.

Dean’s more distracted lately, as well. On more than one occasion, Sam finds his brother moving aimlessly from room to room in Bobby’s house with no apparent task in mind, just a strange look on his face that Sam has never seen there before. It takes Sam too long to interpret the expression, and when he does, the first real stab of fear cuts through him. Because the look on his brother’s face is one of careful listening. And what he’s listening to, well, Sam’s frightened that it’s some injurious inner dialogue, some mean, voiceless voice. Given the cause of their current circumstances, the possibility that Dean is harboring damaging thoughts scares Sam almost as much as Dean’s jutting bones and unreasonable exhaustion does.

And so, in a fit of desperation, Sam confronts Dean outside where the Impala is their only witness. And that seems fitting to Sam. Seems fitting because she’s part of the family, and he has a family discussion in mind.

And they do talk. Well, Sam talks. And Dean’s expression is flat when Sam confronts him and tells him that he knows Dean is not okay. Can’t be okay and really shouldn’t be okay.

And then, after saying what he says, Sam runs. Runs long and far away from the place where Dean stood quietly and listened to the truth with a dead look in his eyes.

It’s near dark when Sam goes looking for his brother again. He starts where he left Dean, standing near the Impala. When Sam sees the car, sees the damage that has been done to her, he’s shocked. He doesn’t miss the significance that it is the trunk of the car that is newly wrecked; the trunk that stores most of their secrets and hunters’ weapons.

And Sam knows that only Dean could have caused such damage, and this knowledge is distressing on a level that is new to him. Distressing because Dean loves this car, and he’s been bleeding his soul to get her fixed. She’s an extension of Dean, and yet he has lifted his hand to her and damaged her anew.

Sam stares at the tell-tale signs of his brother’s dissembling and bites viciously at the nail beds of his right hand until they are close to bleeding.

He needs to ask Dean about whatever emotion precipitated such an outburst, but he’s almost afraid to do it. He doesn’t want to know—really know—that his strong-willed brother is falling apart, even though he does know. Does know and has known for quite some time now.

Dean’s clunking around beneath the engine, and he doesn’t respond when Sam calls him the first time. Sam gently kicks at his brother’s feet to grab his attention, and Dean slowly, sluggishly eases himself out from under the car.

The first thing Sam notices is that Dean’s expression is back to far away and slightly dazed.

“Dean? You okay?” Sam asks cautiously. He’s not entirely sure his brother is going to talk to him after their last lop-sided conversation. And the evidence of Dean’s mood, scratched and dented into the Impala’s trunk, isn’t helping any in boosting Sam’s belief that he’s about to have a healthy, two-sided conversation now.

“Fine, Sammy,” Dean says as he wipes his grimy, oily hands on a rag that is equally grimy and oily.

Dean’s voice is rough and husky from disuse, and the bones of his face have become more pronounced over the course of the past couple of weeks. The obvious, pinched signs of exhaustion combined with the sallow, waxy complexion of his skin make Dean look like he belongs back in the hospital.

“What’s the matter with you, Sammy?” Dean asks sharply, and Sam realizes he’s been staring dumbly at his brother for longer than what might reasonably be considered as polite.

“Uh, nu—nothing, Dean,” Sam stammers and awkwardly looks away from the source of his dismay.

A quick glance shows him that Dean is willing to forgive Sam his eccentricities.

“Where the hell have you been? I was expecting you three hours ago for your hourly check into my health and mental state,” Dean queries with more than a little sarcasm coloring his voice.

Sam chooses to ignore the tone and steels himself as he launches a furtive glance towards the damage on the Impala’s trunk.

“What happened to the trunk, Dean?” Sam asks, and the question tastes bland in his dry mouth.

“Nothing I can’t fix,” Dean instantly responds, and there’s a deadly warning in his eyes.

“Dean—"

“Sam, I’m not talking to you about this,” Dean says. He’s raised his voice now, and his stance shows he’s prepared for a fight. But there’s still a slightly dazed, uncertain look in his eyes.

With a shock, Sam realizes Dean may be near to so far gone that he may not actually remember how the car came to be in its current condition. Because, although Sam has no doubts about how the Impala became so recently wrecked, the confused look his brother is sporting despite the bravado of his posture tells Sam that Dean’s got plenty of doubts.

“Dean, are you okay?” Sam asks again, and he’s almost really frightened now.

“I said I’m fine, Sammy. What the hell is the matter with you?”

“Dean, it’s just—the car, Dean.”

“Sam, I’m not having this discussion with you. You said your piece earlier. Now leave me alone.”

And suddenly, Sam’s angry, and they’re fighting again.

“Discussion! Now why would you think that I’d expect a discussion from you? You never talk to me anymore! And now you’ve messed up the car—"

“Why do you immediately assume I’m the one that did all that?” Dean asks angrily, but at the same time brokenly, and Sam worries that his brother has finally cracked under all the pressure he’s put on himself.

“Dean, who else—"

“Never mind. I’m tired, and I don’t want to talk. Lemme go wash up,” Dean says brusquely, and brushes Sam’s arm with his shoulder as he tries to pass by.

“Dean—" Sam says and simultaneously makes a desperate grab for his brother’s arm. He snags Dean’s shirtsleeve, and Dean becomes so tense and his pupils are so entirely dilated that Sam knows—just knows—the other man will resort to throwing blows if it will allow him escape.

Unwilling to torture his brother any further—because that’s what this busted up conversation and these blatant accusations obviously are to the older of the two Winchesters—Sam abruptly lets go of Dean’s shirt. Dean looks panicked in the instant before Sam allows him to break free, and he tries to cover his distress with a quick and easy grin that is completely absent from his eyes.

“Thanks, Sammy,” the older Winchester whispers. The words are spoken so softly that Sam would have missed them if he was breathing any harder.

“You okay, Dean?” Sam asks for the third time in as many minutes.

“Fine, Sam,” Dean predictably says, turning his back to his brother. “Let’s go. I’ll fix us some dinner.”

And a little later, while Sam eats a meal that has the consistency of grief, and while Dean pushes the food from one end of his plate to another, Sam is so overcome that he excuses himself from the table to seek answers in the nighttime sky that he knows he’ll never find.

888

The next morning, Dean’s still sleeping when Sam wakes up, and Sam lets him be. Dean’s exhausted and sleeping way too much lately, but Sam figures he’s under too much repressed stress and probably needs the rest. So he leaves his brother drowsing in the cramped room they have always shared while staying at Bobby’s, and he pads downstairs to find their host drinking coffee in the kitchen.

“Your brother did some number on that car,” Bobby comments as he leans against a cluttered counter and takes a long pull on the strong coffee that Sam’s body is suddenly aching for.

Sam grunts noncommittally and reaches for a coffee cup. As much as he wants to talk to Dean about this entire mess is as little as he wants to talk to Bobby about it right now. He’s tired, confused and still subject to bouts of his own guilt-ridden grief; talking to anyone but Dean just seems too difficult this morning.

“Listen, I know that what your daddy did has both of you tied up in all sorts of knots, but he wouldn’t want the two of you to be pinin’ for him so,” Bobby says into the silence that descends as Sam pours coffee into his cup.

“Dad always did ask for the impossible,” Sam mutters right before he takes a sip. The coffee tastes dark and earthy, and Sam can’t help but think of that last cup of ‘caffeine’ his father asked him for.

“What was that?” Bobby asks, distracting Sam from the unexpected blow of sorrow the coffee’s taste has wrought upon him.

Sam takes a moment to gauge Bobby’s mood, and realizes there was no fire in the other man’s tone when he asked his question. Bobby simply hadn’t heard Sam’s comment. Sam’s relieved, because he really doesn’t want to fight about Dad and knows he can politely change the course of the conversation.

“Why do you think Dad did it, Bobby?” he asks, easily deflecting Bobby’s question.

Bobby doesn’t ask Sam what he means by ‘it,’ just pauses for a moment and mulls the question over. Then, with a reassuring nod and a pointed look in the younger man’s direction, he responds.

“I ‘spect it wasn’t anything he didn’t want to do.”

And Sam’s not happy with the answer—not at all—but he’s smart enough to realize it’s the best one anyone is ever going to give him.

“Well, we can’t tell Dean. Not yet, at least. He’s too weak,” Sam says wearily, wondering how he’s been drawn into this conversation. Hadn’t he wanted to avoid this whole discussion?

“You don’t think he deserves to know this?”

Bobby’s question startles Sam, and it’s a little while before he’s able to find his voice again. Because of course Dean deserves to know what their father did for him. Deserves to know, because Sam remembers how close to happy Dean had been when Dad—who hadn’t been Dad but that damned demon—had told him he was proud of his oldest son. His big brother deserves to know just how much his father actually did love him, but Sam’s pretty sure the information will kill Dean. Actually, he’s pretty sure Dean suspects what his father sacrificed, and that even his suspicions are coming close to killing him.

“You don’t know, Bobby. You just don’t know,” Sam says, and when his breath hitches, he’s forced to go quiet again. It takes him almost a minute to regain his composure, and when he does, he’s blurting out someone else’s secrets before he can stop himself.

“A few months ago, Dean’s heart was damaged in a fight with a raw-head. I took him to a faith healer who fixed his heart, but the guy unknowingly used a reaper to do it. Dean survived only because the reaper put the damage on someone else. Someone else who died, Bobby. Dean took it hard. Real hard. And that was a complete stranger. He won’t be able to stand it knowing what Dad sacrificed for him. Hell, I can barely stand it, and he didn’t even do it for me.”

“And you don’t think that Dean knows what your daddy did for him? The kid’s not as dumb as he looks.”

Sam thinks back yet again to the Impala’s ruined trunk and knows Bobby has asked a legitimate question; a question that the grizzled hunter knows the answer to, but that he’s forcing Sam to say out loud. Sam hesitates for a moment, because this will be the first time he actually voices his beliefs about what is going through his brother’s head, and he doesn’t really want to do it. But Bobby is looking at him with a meaningful glint in his eye, and Sam finally succumbs to the other man’s wishes.

“Yeah, I think that on some level he knows. But to say it out loud to him, to put it in his face, I don’t know, Bobby. I think it might—“

Might what? Sam thinks as his voice breaks. Break him? Drive him insane? Kill him?

“Okay, son. Okay. Don’t fret. I won’t say anything. You know your brother best,” Bobby hastily assures Sam who is feeling more upset by the second. He’s lost so much already, and this threat of losing Dean to his own mind is becoming too much to bear.

Bobby awkwardly pats his shoulder with his large, clumsy hand, and Sam composes himself by taking in a deep, shaky breath.

“It’s okay, boy. You’ll be okay. You’ll both be okay.”

And because Sam has no other option but to believe in these words, he nods vigorously as he rubs burning tears from his eyes.

888

Sam’s not entirely happy when they decide to hit the road again. But, after taking on that maniac clown, they’ve both proven to each other that they’re able to hunt again, so it seems appropriate to move on. Besides, it will be nice to be on their own again in a space where they don’t have to worry about outsiders, no matter how close said outsiders are to what’s left of their family.

When they reach the East coast after two days of Dean driving practically non-stop, it’s raining. But the scent of the salt water on the air is so soothing to Sam that he immediately feels safer than he has in weeks. They pick up some credit cards and other supplies before finding an over-priced hotel room on the seashore.

Sam can’t help but clutch the new laptop to himself like it’s some sort of talisman, and maybe for him it is. The computer has become a gateway to research and distraction and the rational approach to solving problems, and he needs all of these things now so much more than he ever has before. Needs them because Dean is talking in his sleep now, and what he’s saying isn’t good. Needs them because Dean’s hands shake, and the only time they stop is when they’re driving somewhere or when they’re killing some evil thing.

So he clutches the laptop like the life-line it is and finds jobs for them; jobs that require Dean to get out of bed and go on. Sam’s past the point where he only wants Dean to talk to him about how he’s feeling about the death of their dad. No, now, he’s at the point where he just wants Dean to keep it together for just a little while longer. Dean’s just got to stay sane long enough for Sam to figure out how to fix him.

And the hunt seems to ease some ache that is flowing deep inside of Dean, so it’s what they do for now. But Dean’s hands still shake, and the moments of aimless bewilderment are becoming more frequent. And Sam’s now sure Dean’s listening to some inner voice, and he’s just as sure these interior chats are taking a huge toll on the older Winchester’s reserves.

Sam scrabbles to find the way to make things all better for Dean, but so far he’s been unsuccessful. So, he finds another hunt for them and hopes that when he wakes up, the safe and right things to say and do will have found him.

888

The evening after a simple salt and burn, Dean collapses in his ragged, motel bed and doesn’t move from it for an entire night and day. Sam doesn’t understand the bizarre behavior and thinks maybe Dean doesn’t either. The salt and burn was an easy job, not taxing in any way. Just a body turned to ashes after a spirit started wandering farmland and scaring the bejeesus out of the locals. And the spirit hadn’t even turned to malevolence yet, so the task was only a matter of putting a sad soul to rest.

But Dean’s apparent reaction to what should be a simple matter has Sam wondering if this latest incident is tied in any way to the reaper his brother supposedly fought against in the hospital. On a certain level, associating the reaper with this hopeless spirit could make sense. Neither remaining Winchester knows much about reapers, but what little their father’s journal says indicates they’re not entirely bad. In fact, despite the whole harbinger of death thing, they are mostly creatures meant to guide lost souls, which isn’t exactly an evil gig.

Sam’s been re-reading his father’s notes on reapers, all the while trying hard not to think too much about how his dad will never write another word again, when Dean suddenly stirs. Sam’s read just enough to understand it wouldn’t be too far-fetched for Dean to have associated their latest salt and burn adventure with the reaper he claims not to remember, so when Dean’s eyes crack open, he can’t help but ask, yet again, if his brother’s okay.

Dean slowly turns on his stomach, presses his face hard into the flat hotel pillow, and mutters his typical, “I’m fine,” crap. Sam doesn’t believe him for a second. Can’t even fool himself into believing him no matter how much he wants to, because Dean’s voice is coated with despair, and he’s been in bed all fucking day. Sam’s about to point this all out to Dean when his brother’s breathing eases and evens, and it’s obvious that the disturbed hunter has drifted off to sleep again.

Sam resumes reading, but his attention wavers later, when it’s deep night and Dean begins muttering quiet, half-words. Dean talking in his sleep about recent horrors is now nothing new for Sam, but there is something in the tone of the words currently escaping from between his brother’s lips that catches his awareness.

And then suddenly, the words are clearer than they’ve ever been. Sam leans forward in his chair as he tries to make sense of what he’s hearing. And when the words become sentences that illustrate events Dean was never meant to remember, Sam leaves the chair and kneels beside the bed and his tormented brother.

"What the hell do you want to talk about?"

"Not my time. It’s not."

"You gotta make an exception. You gotta cut me a break."

"My brother, h-he could die without me."

"Not going with you. I don’t care what you do."

"Dad. Daddy, no—"

"Why are you saying this stuff?"

"You’re scaring me."

And suddenly, Sam’s got tears in his eyes, and his hand is reaching out to stroke away Dean’s memories and fears. Making damn sure he doesn’t wake his brother, he gently brushes his fingers through sweat-slicked hair and whispers soothing words. Tears that have not been expressed in the waking hours pour from Dean’s eyes and stain the pillow beneath his head. Sam’s crying now too, because it’s at this point that he realizes he has no choice but to accept that there really was a reaper after Dean; has no choice but to accept that their father honestly sacrificed himself for his dying son, and also that on some terrible level of consciousness, Dean knows all of this too and harbors secret hurts.

He cries, too, for Dean who isn’t allowed to express his grief except for when he’s unaware of doing so. Weeps for his brother who needs to be so strong, but who is breaking in the process of maintaining that need.

He weeps and questions whether the reaper gave Dean a choice. Weeps as he realizes that as close to death as his brother was, a choice was undoubtedly given. Weeps and can’t help but wonder what choice Dean had made when presented with such an ultimate decision.

Sam’s fingers tighten just a little too roughly in Dean’s hair as he tries to hold on to some part of his brother; tries to grasp hard and strong onto the only family he has left. His heart rockets when Dean’s eyes flutter and his breath quickens. Sam bounds across the room and flicks the light off with one, skillful sweep of his long hand. Then, as Dean is kicking his legs and shifting to his back, Sam practically leaps into his own bed and draws the covers tightly over his shoulders. His eyes are closed when he hears Dean sit up, but getting his breathing under control is a real bitch.

He’s only sure he’s managed to fool Dean into thinking he’s asleep when he hears his brother pound on his pillow and then stumble to the bathroom door. It’s only when he hears the door click shut that Sam allows himself a truly full breath, and that’s when his breathing finally evens out. He listens to Dean turn on the shower and relaxes subtly. It’s both too early and too late for Dean to be washing up, but Sam supposes he’s in no position to judge.

Nevertheless, he listens carefully to the goings on in the bathroom, and when the shower stops and many minutes pass with no sign of Dean exiting, Sam’s breathing quickens again.

Minutes turn to fractions of hours, and the anxiety builds to an intolerable level within him.

And so, he finds Dean in the bathroom, half-naked and curled up in a corner. It takes too much time for Dean to notice him, and when he finally does, he laughs in a way that turns Sam’s stomach.

“Dad would’ve had our hides if he had found out about the Ouija board, Sam,” Dean says, and laughs that awful laugh again. The stricken look on his brother’s face both terrifies and saddens Sam.

And Sam doesn’t know what this means, that his brother remembers the Ouija board incident, but Dean’s absolutely right. Dad would have skinned them both alive if he had found out they were messing around with such ancient and sacred rites.

But none of this is important right now. Only Dean is.

“I know, Dean,” Sam says, hoping to open the door to an actual, honest-to-goddamn-goodness real, fucking conversation for once.

And yet, he can’t say he’s too surprised when Dean unflinchingly cuts though anything Sam might have said next.

“No chick flick moments, Sammy-boy,” the older Winchester says, and Sam can’t ignore the pain that chokes his brother’s voice.

“Dean—"

“No, Sam. No,” Dean says in that terrible, broken way. “I won’t.”

And then, to prove his resolve and the extent of his stubbornness, Dean stands up and shuffles his way past Sam and any chance for absolution that might have been offered.

Sam doesn’t know what to do in response to such self-flagellation, so instead of following his brother out of the bathroom, he hunkers down on the cold, tiled floor and finishes shedding what little tears he has left.

888

After the display that took place in a grungy hotel bathroom, Dean seems to have reached some sort of delicate balance. It’s as if he has decided that enough is enough, and he’s not going to show any emotion now. To Sam, it’s as if his brother has chosen to pull the splintered and torn ends of himself together, even though the edges no longer fit plum with one another. But somehow, Dean pulled those sharp edges together and, although there’s never going to be a perfect fit, Sam knows his brother thinks that the fucked up repair job is just going to have to be damn well good enough.

And yet to Sam’s trained eye, there’s no doubt Dean is still in substantial pain. He remains entirely too quiet and is so ruthless in the hunt that Sam continues to experience fear that his brother will come to harm or even do himself harm. It’s an almost untenable situation for the younger Winchester who is all too aware that they’re all each other has left.

But there are improvements that give Sam fragile hope. Dean’s hands no longer shake, and the sick inner dialogue has been shut down just as surely as the bouts of aimless wandering have ended. It’s as if Dean is completely focused on protecting Sam from the emotion he just barely held in check within the confines of that tight and tiled bathroom.

So the shaking and the wandering and the heavy thinking have ended, and Sam knows now that he’s never going to have that all important conversation he’s been seeking out for weeks. He’s almost okay with that, except he still worries that one day he’ll find Dean out of his mind or dead from the pressure of keeping ill-kept secrets unvoiced. But if Dean’s willing to try living with splintered edges, then Sam figures he owes his brother the opportunity.

And every once in a while, Sam allows himself a little more than fragile hope; allows himself true and honest hopes. It’s a difficult thing, this hoping when the landscape of his future seems dark and bleak. But on occasion he manages to hope that he and Dean will be brothers again. Brothers who laugh and converse and take each other’s presence for granted just as they once did. Brothers who save the lives of innocent people and who memorialize their father—their sacrificing father—by continuing the work he found so important.

And, on the most, rare occasion, Sam hopes a secret, quiet hope; a hope he keeps small and pressed close to his beating heart. It’s the simplest hope, yet it’s also his heart’s desire. He won’t ever speak of it for fear of negating its possibility. But the hope that soon, sometime soon both he and Dean will be able to stand still and rest for a while keeps him moving down the long road of the hunt.

Keeps him moving and hoping and loving the only family he has left.

Repost SPN Genfic: Elemental

Tue, 03 Oct 2006 21:19:46 GMT

Okay, since I've been messing around with the lj-cuts, I managed to completely mess up the posting of this fic. So I'm re-posting it. I have no hair left...just so you know. None at all.

:)

Disclaimer: I don’t own SPN. I’m not making money off of this. They’re not mine (wah!)! Please, I beg of you, don’t sue!

WARNINGS for language and disturbing imagery (well, disturbing only if I did this right).

Elemental
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
‘Anchises replied by explaining the plan of creation. The Creator, he told him, originally made the material of which souls are composed, of the four elements, fire, air, earth, and water, all which when united took the form of the most excellent part, fire, and became flame.’

~~Thomas Bulfinch (Age of Fable: Vols I & II: Stories of Gods and Heroes)~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean is screaming.

Sam doesn’t know what happened, because he was sleeping when it all started. And now, he can’t wake Dean who is screaming and howling in the night dark hotel room.

He touches Dean's shoulder again, puts his hand out to try another time to wake his brother, hoping to get a different response than the last time he tried this. But it’s only the same as Dean’s cries are smothered, and he loses air along with the ability to scream.

Sam abruptly withdraws his hand, and Dean begins breathing again. But the yelling continues shortly after, and Sam is practically beside himself.

“Dean!” he yells, and his voice barely projects over his brother’s. “DEAN! For Christ’s sake!”

He’s tried yelling before as well, but it didn’t work the first time, and it sure isn’t working now. Sam doesn’t know what to do, and he doesn’t know what’s happening, and now he’s just waiting. Waiting for the occupants in some other room to start knocking at their door, waiting for Dean to stop screaming, waiting for something else to happen because he can’t seem to break out of this limbo where his brother is yelling, and Sam can’t do anything to help.

His hands hover and flutter just out of reach of Dean’s body, and there’s moisture on his face that he refuses to acknowledge.

Finally the torture of total, paralyzing helplessness ends when Dean’s screams turn into quieter sobbing and, simultaneously, someone begins pounding on the door, knocking with authority, anger, or noble purpose. Sam can’t tell which.

He leans over Dean, unsure whether or not he should touch him. Dean’s still not awake, but he’s quieter and breathing, so Sam opts to answer the door since the knocking has become more fervent and dangerous sounding.

“I’m sorry. Sorry,” Sam’s saying before he’s even got the door open a crack. A kind looking man, with thick, white hair and a few too many pounds on his frame, is peeking through the crack with concern heavily lining his tired face.

“What’s going on? Is everyone okay?” the man asks. “My wife and I heard screaming.”

Sam’s mind automatically produces the story that his mouth then so smoothly tells.

“Everything’s fine, sir. I’m sorry. My brother, he’s been having nightmares since returning from Iraq. He screams sometimes. I’m sorry.”

The tension in the man’s spine disappears, although the concern in his face does not. He shuffles a step forward, closer to the door, and whispers his next words.

“No, it’s all right. My brother was the same way after…after Nam.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say, wishes that he didn’t have to lie to this well-meaning man. He feels relief that the guy immediately buys the story, but he’s not all too surprised. It has been Sam’s experience that most well-meaning people don’t like to bring too much trouble on themselves.

“I need to get back to him,” Sam says after the awkward pause. “He’s not well.”

The man nods, says goodnight, and then shambles away. As he leaves, Sam notices that the guy’s wearing slippers over bare feet.

888

There’s heat and smoke, and he pounds his way up the staircase, because the house is on fire.

He rushes to the source of the flames. The fire is hot, and it’s loud, and it’s coming from above. He looks up. Looks up with a feeling of dread. Looks up with a pain in his chest. Looks up at the ceiling and everything, every little thing, is chaos. It’s chaos and hellish, because his mom is up there. Up there on the ceiling. It’s his mom who is on fire, and she’s screaming and burning away, away, away to ashes.

His mind begins shrieking.

Don’t look! Don’t look!

But he is looking, and he can’t stop, and he wants it all over right now!

A sound comes from further in the room, and suddenly he’s able to tear his gaze away from the horror above.

“Dad? Dad where are you?” he yells, because this is all wrong. This isn’t how it happened; he’s not supposed to see her. His dad is supposed to be here.

But Dad isn’t, and Dean sees that the noise is coming from the baby who is twisting and turning in the crib. The baby—Sam!—who is too close to the flames, who is going to burn if Dean doesn’t get to him soon.

He lunges towards the crib, but flames strike out at him from above. He’s sweating and desperate, and dives forward again. The fire burns him, and he coughs on smoke and the smell of his own burning hair. His skin is too hot, and he feels it blistering and sees it…sees it…oh God, he won’t think about what’s happening to him. Won’t think anymore, because the smell of cooking flesh is making him sick, and the pain will make him stop if he gives it too much power.

Won’t think, because Dad’s not here, and Mom’s on the ceiling, and Sam is the only one that matters now.

So he pushes through the flame so that he can go save Sam who is on the other side.

But he makes it to the crib before he passes completely through the fire, and he can’t seem to understand what he’s seeing as his skin continues to burn. He’s looking down into the crib with failing eyes, and he doesn’t understand, but suddenly he does, and now he’s crying.

“Sam! No, no, no, NO!”

He looks away from the unbearable sight. Looks up, and sees that his mother’s face is no longer hers. He thinks that this is important, but then the pain hits, and he remembers that only Sam is important. Only Sam. And Sam is…Sam he’s….

Dean can’t think any further and only wants to scream and scream and scream.

“SAMMY!”

But instead of a scream, it’s just a soft whisper that barely escapes from between his blistering lips.

888

Sam is slouching into the chair that he has pushed close to Dean’s bedside. He’s keeping vigil over Dean as he’s flipping the pages of their father’s journal.

He still hasn’t been able to wake his brother, and he’s more scared than he’d like to admit.

At least the sobbing has stopped now.

Sam’s bitten his fingernails until they’ve bled, and now, the nervous hand that isn’t turning pages is tugging at his hair so hard that his scalp is complaining.

Dean is breathing, but it’s too fast and shallow. Sam has tried to monitor his brother’s pulse, but it’s an impossible task, because every time he’s grabbed Dean’s wrist, the too fast, too shallow movement of his brother’s chest abruptly stops.

The dawning sun shifts position to a place a little higher in the sky. A ray of brightness slips between a small slit in the curtains and strikes Sam directly in his eyes. He moves out of the way of the escaping sun and flips another page. He tugs his hair too forcefully, and the nervous hand migrates to his mouth.

He’s biting his nails again when Dean’s breath starts to stutter and slow. Sam doesn’t know what this means, because he isn’t touching Dean. This isn’t supposed to be happening. The rule is that Dean’s breathing is compromised only when Sam is touching him. And Sam’s isn’t touching Dean right now. He’s following the rules! It’s not fair, and Dean should be breathing fast and shallow, not slow and stuttering.

But apparently, Sam doesn’t really understand the rules, because fairness isn’t written anywhere in them.

Not even between the lines or in the fine print.

888

It’s wet and fucking cold out here, and Dean’s sick of waiting for the black dog to show its ugly dog face. He wonders what Dad would think if he and Sam just called it quits and returned to the car, but that bout of pondering lasts for all of a second, because he’s pretty sure Dad wouldn’t be exactly happy. Dean grimaces at the cold dampness that is slowly seeping through the thick denim of his jeans as he kneels in the moist, aromatic earth staining the spot under a towering oak tree. He turns to his right to bitch to Sam who is supposed to be there beside him, but when he doesn’t see the familiar outline of his brother, the complaint dies on his lips. He thinks, for a moment, that he’s just not seeing Sam because it’s too dark. But when he senses that the warm presence of his brother is also gone, confusion turns into full-fledged panic.

He stands quickly and spins around in a fervent need to catch sight of Sam. Part of his brain is registering that something beyond the absence of his brother is wrong, that he’s standing too tall, much taller than the teenager he had been when this hunt went on the first time.

But Sam’s gone, inexplicably and frighteningly gone. He has no time to think about anything other than finding his brother, his little brother who is much too young to be wandering around the woods in the night. By himself. With a black dog prowling.

He’s angry and scared, and his breath is coming fast in little puffs of condensed air when he hears the yell. It’s followed by the unmistakable sound of splashing water, and Dean remembers that there’s a lake in these woods.

He’s running before he consciously realizes it, and his breath is coming even faster now. It’s suddenly quiet, and the only sounds he hears are the bellows of his heaving chest and the rustle of the frost covered undergrowth that is passing in a leaf-crackling rush beneath his winter boots.

Sam is thrashing in the water, the cold water, when Dean stumbles across the lake. Without thought, without wondering how the hell Sam could have fallen in, he is diving into the water. The cold rips the breath from his lungs, and he feels his extremities and his thoughts begin to ice over. The pain is incredible, but he forces frozen muscles to move, and soon he has a numb hand wrapped around one of Sam’s arms.

Sam’s limp and unresponsive, and Dean loses his fragile grasp on his little brother when he scrabbles to gain leverage. Sam’s smaller body immediately begins to sink, drawn to the bottom of this watery horror by a heavy winter coat and thick, metal-toed boots. Dean’s breathing is stilted and wrong, but he dives after his brother anyway. He just manages to nab the hood of Sam’s jacket and is beginning to pull his brother up when something viciously tugs his beloved burden downwards.

That’s when Dean loses his grip on Sam again.

He’s screams inside his head and dives deeper than he thinks his overtaxed body is going to be able to handle. But he sees Sam. He’s just a hairsbreadth out of his grasp. If he hurries, he can save him. He can save his brother. He just needs to grab him one last time.

Dean’s hand brushes against cold fingers. He lunges and catches and pulls. He closes his eyes with exertion, and when he opens them, he has Sam with him, and he is looking upward towards the surface of this bitter cold lake.

A woman’s face is looking into the water. Looking down from above.

Dean startles, and then breaks the surface, heaving in lungfuls of air. The woman is gone, but Sam is in his arms, so that’s okay. In fact it’s better than okay. It’s freakin’ spectacular.

Spectacular, that is, until he drags Sam’s body to the water’s edge, and he can’t get him started again.

Sam’s not breathing, and his heartbeat is gone. So Dean pounds on the thin chest of his baby brother, and begins sobbing, and breathing, and pushing, and pulling, and willing life to return. He does this forever and remains unsuccessful.

“Please, Sam. Please. No, no, no, don’t go. Please. Please stay. Please. Sammy.”

And the words are a whispering, anguished prayer that won’t ever be answered.

888

It’s a witch’s curse. Well, it could be a witch’s curse, at least according to Dad’s journal. Sam finally found a helpful entry shortly after Dean’s breathing returned to fast and shallow. He was happy about that, but not about the waxy complexion Dean took on afterwards.

The problem is that there are all sorts of curses, and all types of witches, and Sam doesn’t know exactly who put this curse on Dean or what type it is. He can’t even really hazard a guess, because it could be an associate of any number of black witches, warlocks, or necromancers. There have been quite a few magic-wielding bad guys that have crossed paths with the Winchester boys, and those magic-wielding bad guys quite often had a following that would be more than happy to exact revenge.

But who exactly could be originating this curse, or even what specific curse it is, well, those facts are beyond Sam’s descrying. And even the theory he has about the curse originating from one of their cases is a weak guess at best. They are always careful about taking on anything related to genuine magic, always seeking anonymity in order to prevent the possibility of being on the receiving end of curses just like the one they’re on now.

Sam grimaces as he realizes that this particular curse that has only struck his Casanova-like brother could actually be generated by one of the idiot’s jilted lovers.

He thrusts the thought away, because it’s a useless waste of energy. According to their father’s journal, there are some generic things that can be done. Protection symbols that will diminish the effects of any curse can be drawn. Incantations can be spoken. Rituals can be performed. There’s more to do than obsess over the source of the spell.

He rifles through his bag for a Sharpie and wonders if the girl Dean had picked up last month in that bar in Washingtonville could have done this.

She had been a real bitch.

888

Dean’s face is pressed into dry earth, and he’s breathing it in and choking on dust which is as desiccated as hot bones. He’s confused, because he doesn’t know how he got here, and he can hear Sam faintly crying somewhere in front of him, but he just can’t see him. Dust is clogging his throat, and he really thinks that he’s going to suffocate when the rough arms that are holding him down lift him up.

He’s in a schoolyard that looks vaguely familiar. He can’t place it amongst all of the different schoolyard memories he has, but he knows he’s been here before. And this is either the worst case of déjà vu that he’s ever experienced, or something big is happening to him.

Sam is crouched in the dirt near the basketball court. Dean can’t see him clearly, because there are other boys hovering over his little brother, concealing him from Dean’s sight. But Dean knows that it’s his little brother over there as sure as a compass knows where true north is.

The crowd shifts, and Dean gets his first clear view of Sam. Sam’s face is red pulp and raw meat, and he’s not moving or even crying anymore as the other kids continue to punch and kick him into the ground. And that’s when Dean accepts with utter certainty that this isn’t real, that something is terribly wrong. Accepts this because he distinctly remembers beating the shit out of these assholes after one of them dared to even talk disrespectfully to Sam on his first day of Junior High.

Dean cringes when he hears the unmistakable sound of one of Sam’s bones snapping. Despite his conviction that this is all pretend, he can’t help the spike of fear that courses through him when he realizes that Sam didn’t even flinch when that bone, whichever one it was, was shattered. He tries to reassert control over his own imagination by remembering the mix of emotions on his father’s face after informing him that he had been suspended from school for fighting. That gut-wrenching image offers him some fragile restraint, and he’s able to search the crowd for further information.

There’s a woman there, dressed like a teacher, but who isn’t acting like one. She’s not intervening, not even going for help. She’s just staring with shocking glee as the two upperclassman holding Dean begin to rough him up a bit. She garners Dean’s attention, but all he can tell about her is that she looks vaguely familiar in the way one sibling might resemble another.

She’s behind this, he thinks, and attempts to take a step in her direction, but his efforts are defeated by the two assholes who continue to slap at his face. When he’s able to look into the crowd again, she’s gone.

And Sam is making strange sounds that convey pain and suffering even from way across the schoolyard. The noises are thick and soft and so appallingly weak, and Dean finds that he can’t take any of this anymore. Even if this is some kind of dream or other kind of trick, he suddenly finds it inherent and necessary to save his brother from the agony and danger that is surrounding them both.

He looks across the yard at the huddled mass of raw flesh that is his brother, sees a bubble of blood grow then pop between Sam’s broken teeth, and rage explodes within him. He shrugs off the two goons holding his arms and begins to hit, and punch, and render pain for pain, until his fists are torn and bleeding.

He’s freely fighting and trying to make his way to Sam, but for every bully that is crushed by his fury, there are two more that take his place. He’s no closer to Sam, but he can see that his brother is bleeding too much and too fast. And even though Dean’s bleeding himself and is broken in very bad places, he needs to get to Sam, needs to stanch the life that is coursing out of baby brother and turning the dusty earth to red mud.

He brings down one more kid by hitting him in the face and then chances another look at Sam. He doesn’t think that his little brother is breathing anymore, and a scared and frustrated cry escapes him. Sam’s still and slowly oozing, and Dean’s no closer to him when his adversaries slowly, inexorably take him down to the ground.

Red black wrath takes Dean over, but he knows that no amount of anger is going to save Sam. He growls and kicks and bites because he is diminished to base animalistic action and emotion.

“SAMMY!” he howls and roars his rage as he catches one last glimpse of his lifeless brother.

888

The protection symbols aren’t completely stemming the attack, but they’ve stabilized Dean well enough that Sam can touch him. It’s a privilege that, with trembling hands, he takes advantage of now, because he thought Dean was well on his way to dying just a few minutes ago.

Sam was sketching the symbols on practically every surface of the room when Dean’s body had clenched and then convulsed. Sam had felt his mouth open in shock, and he had almost dropped the Sharpie, when he suddenly realized that this curse could easily be killing his brother in an immediate way.

He had rushed to Dean’s side but hadn’t dared touch him. And as his brother’s body seized and bucked against some unseen enemy, Sam had intuited a possible course of action. Panic had made clear thinking and a steady hand difficult to attain, but somehow Sam had managed to correctly draw the safeguarding symbols on Dean’s skin. When the first sign had been completed, Dean’s body had immediately relaxed, and Sam had been presented with a brother who was still breathing, but who was beginning to look wasted in sickness.

Now, arms and legs and even one side of Dean’s face are littered with rough drawn characters that offer Dean some small amount of defense and offer Sam the ability to make tangible contact with his brother.

Sam knows that Dean, when he wakes up, is going to have something to say about the indelible ink that covers him.

Sam struggles to let go of his brother’s shoulder, because he has to start the ritual before this goes any further. But he’s unwilling to release the life-warmed flesh beneath his hands, so he takes another moment, just for himself.

Afterwards, his shaking hands struggle to find the correct page in Dad’s journal. When his sweaty, fidgety hands slip on the book after he finds the ritual spelled out in their father’s neat handwriting, he swears coarsely. He catches the journal before dropping it, but a dozen or so of the paper scraps that are loosely pressed between the bound pages flutter to the floor. They each carry vital information that their father, at one time or another, had scribbled down and placed in the journal in a sensible arrangement. Now they are a jumble of disorganization that would normally insult Sam’s well-developed need for order.

But he just can’t bring himself to care overly much about them right now.

In fact, he completely ignores the errant scraps of paper, barely notices as he steps over them to light both a blue and a white candle which are standing tall on the nightstand. The bloodwort leaves are smoldering nicely, and their rising smoke is giving the room a pungent scent that isn’t entirely unpleasant. Sam stands over Dean’s reclining form, clears his throat, and then, hesitantly at first, but with growing confidence, says the proper words.

888

It is a perfect day. Perfect in the way that dreams can make the sky an unfathomable blue and decorate it with cottony clouds and streaming rays of soothing sun. The leaves on the trees are so brightly green, that they look like part of a water color painting he once saw in a book. They whisper like bells in the gentle breeze that also plays with his hair and which is teasing and faultless in its own way.

He feels warm in every way that a person can. Skin, sun-kissed; soul restful.

But he is suddenly, unfairly, shocked to bitter coldness when he sees Sam standing at the edge of a cliff side, looking as if he might jump off.

He starts to run, and now he’s sweating, but it’s a cold, frozen sweat that slicks his skin and makes him shudder. His heart is beating too fast, and his mind is racing almost as quickly. He continues to run towards the horizon and shouts something unintelligible to grab the attention of his brother. He is relieved when Sam turns and faces him.

Sam smiles broadly, waves and takes a step towards Dean and away from the deadly precipice. He seems relaxed and more than willing to give Dean the time to catch up with him.

Dean does, and despite the fact that he’s bent over his own knees trying to regain his lost breath, he manages to sputter out the words of his fear.

“Sam, are you crazy? Stay away from the edge. I don’t want you to fall.”

Sam’s openly affectionate smile broadens further.

“We need to leave now,” Sam says, reaching for him, grasping his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

“What in the hell are you talking about, little brother?” Dean asks the other man, incredulous.

Something’s not right. He knows something’s not right, and that it hasn’t been right for quite some time now. But he just can’t seem to place a finger on what’s wrong.

Sam tugs him closer to the cliff, and he resists. He tries to wrap his mind around what is happening, tries to remember if he’s ever been to this place before. Ignoring Sam for a moment, he scans the area and sees a woman watching them from the safe side of the cliff. Her hair is white, and her face is pale, and her eyes are gleaming with something unsavory. She’s smiling and beckoning, and is seriously creeping Dean out.

He steps towards Sam, and the woman’s face shades to angry. The airy breeze whimsically pushes him further in Sam’s direction, and he follows its advice. The woman is becoming angrier and more frightening, and Dean thinks that this really can’t end well.

“Trust me,” Sam says, and his words tear Dean’s attention away from the scary woman whose anger is burningdrowningsmothering killing him.

“Okay. Okay, Sam,” Dean says, and follows Sam to the very edge of the cliff.

Beneath the rock face, there is nothing but air, and empty space, and that friendly breeze. Vertigo hits Dean in a strong wave, but Sam grabs his shoulder again, and everything is better.

“Jump,” Sam says with a supportive squeeze to Dean’s shoulder.

Dean thinks his little brother has gone crazy, and he turns to tell him so, but then he sees the terrible woman advancing on them.

“Dean,” Sam says. Dean turns to his little brother, who is looking at him with outright love and compassion, and that in and of itself should scare him, but for some reason, in this place, it doesn’t.

“Dean,” Sam repeats. “Jump.”

Dean breathes in a deep breath of air and then jumps because Sam told him to do it, and he trusts Sam above all others. Suddenly he’s hurtling through air and wind that has lost its innocent edge and has become angry and raging. His breath is stolen away again, and he’s scared, and he doesn’t know where Sam is. He needs so desperately to understand what is happening, what is fucking going on, but can’t seem to make sense of anything as he falls and falls and falls to the nothingness that is below.

Suddenly fire erupts around him, but it’s a cold fire, and the flame is his and does not burn. No longer afraid, he watches the fire, revels in it, and is amazed that the violent wind does not snuff it out.

And then, like a light blinking off, the world goes dark. There is no wind battering at him to indicate that he’s still falling, but yet he’s not quite sure where the earth is either. His mouth goes dry, when he realizes that the cold fire has also died out.

It’s dark, so he opens his eyes.

888

Dean opens his eyes, and Sam can’t quite believe it. He had had his doubts about the efficacy of the ritual, but the proof that it works is here in the green of Dean’s weary gaze.

To put it bluntly, Dean looks like shit. He’s obviously confused, so Sam settles in the chair beside the bed, and places a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder to better ground him.

“It was a witch’s curse, Dean. I’m not quite sure who or what, but there was a ritual in Dad’s journal. It worked,” he says, a little too quickly if Dean’s scowl of annoyance is any indication.

“You’ll need to rest, but we’ll be safe here. We’ll stay here for the next couple of days. I’ll go make arrangements with the manager,” Sam says as he stares intently into Dean’s eyes, looking for any indication that Dean understands.

Dean blinks slowly and then nods. Sam stands up, and shuffles his coat on before heading towards the door.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, with an exhausted, yet grateful expression on his face. He seems incapable of finishing his thought, but Sam understands completely.

“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Sam,” he says, gruffly.

When Dean’s eyes slip closed, Sam returns to the bedside. He doesn’t take his jacket off, just slumps in the chair and watches his brother sleep peacefully.

SPN Fic: There's Only Here and Now

Tue, 03 Oct 2006 04:05:44 GMT

A/N: Heavy spoilers from the Season 2 Premiere, “In My Time of Dying.” I’ve been feeling completely heart-thrashed since watching it, and had to do something. More than likely, there will be a follow-up fic to this one, but it will be in Sam’s point of view. I just decided to try Dean’s first.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural. The CW and Eric Kripke do. Oh, and I’m not making profit from this, as is evidenced by my crappy apartment.

There’s Only the Here and Now

They stay at Bobby’s because they just don’t know what else to do. They can’t move on and they can’t forget, so they may as well stand still for just a little while until one of them finds a direction. Besides, Bobby insists on it, and it will give them time to get the Impala in working order. Repairing the Impala is good; a good idea, because they’ve lost too many family members already, and maybe they can keep this one.

Dean works on his car every day. He works despite the residual pain of his injuries; works to honor his father’s memory, because his father loved this car before Dean did. Working is something else that’s good, because it keeps Dean from thinking. And he doesn’t want to think anymore because when he does, some squirmy, niggling part of his brain insists on being heard, and Dean is pretty sure he doesn’t want to listen to what it has to say.

So he works on the car, and watches Sam closely, and offers comfort if he can. It’s not often he can find the energy to speak anymore, but if Sammy needs the words, Dean will gladly give them up to him.

'It wasn’t your fault.'

'Calm down, Sam.'

'We’re okay. We’ll be okay, you’ll see.'

He gives him the words and the soft reassurances of a gentle hand on a shoulder or, if necessary, even a consoling embrace. Sammy calms down, and Dean becomes even more tired.

And it’s only when he gets this tired that he sleeps. And it’s while he’s sleeping that the little niggling voice he tries so hard to ignore is strong and tells him things he doesn’t want to know. Tells him reasonable things in a reasonable voice that makes more sense than any other part of his existence presently does.

888

Dean wakes up from a dream of a dark-haired jewel of a woman stroking the back of his neck to the smell of musty sheets and the shock of sunlight’s beam striking him straight in the eyes. He rubs his neck as the sensation of ghosting fingers slowly fades and then struggles his way out of the bed. Sammy’s not in the room which they share here in Bobby’s corner of the world, so Dean staggers out and into the main area of the house.

Muffled voices are coming from the kitchen, and Dean’s dream-hazed mind supplies him with enough information to know that Sam and Bobby are having a serious conversation. Damn serious from the sound of it, and Dean’s not sure he really wants to know what they’re discussing. But the memory of slender fingers on his neck practically pushes him toward the door, and he stands there quietly and eavesdrops despite his desperate desire not to.

“I ‘spect it wasn’t anything he didn’t want to do,” Bobby is saying in a knowing way. Sam doesn’t sound happy at all, but Bobby’s words are too pragmatic for Dean’s rational brother to fight.

“Well, we can’t tell Dean. Not yet, at least. He’s too weak,” Sam’s voice is laced with concern and heavy grief, and Dean almost barrels through the door to level some comfort on his little brother.

Almost, but not quite.

“You don’t think he deserves to know this?”

Sam’s quiet for some time after Bobby asks this question, and when he answers, Dean can hear tears jamming up his voice.

“You don’t know, Bobby. You just don’t know,” Sam’s breath hitches and he goes quiet once more. Dean’s got his hand on the flat of the kitchen door and is about to open it when Sam starts talking again.

“A few months ago, Dean’s heart was damaged in a fight with a raw-head. I took him to a faith healer who fixed his heart, but the guy unknowingly used a reaper to do it. Dean survived only because the reaper put the damage on someone else. Someone else who died, Bobby. Dean took it hard. Real hard. And that was a complete stranger. He won’t—"

Despite the vacant façade Dean wears from time to time, he’s never been stupid. On some level he knows what Sam is talking about, practically knows what the next words coming out of Sam’s mouth will be. But there’s another part of him that just refuses to hear it. It’s the same stubborn part that keeps shutting down the squirmy voice in his head, and now it works to slam down walls that keep any further sound and thought from entering.

He’s in the shower when awareness returns, but he has no recollection of undressing and lathering up. Nevertheless, here he is, covered in soap, and the water’s way too hot.

Numbly, he adjusts the water temperature and concentrates on nothing else but getting clean again.

888

When the Impala is in working order, they decide to go back on the road. It’s a mutual decision even though neither one of them can completely say why they feel the need to move on. But the need is there, and after inadequate words of gratitude they return Bobby to his solitary life.

They both scent sulphur in the wind, and they push on through two days and a night of sleepless worry and fear. When they reach the East coast, it’s raining and the air smells clean and slightly salty.

They need funds, and Dean’s still too exhausted and out of sorts to hustle money out of the locals’ pockets. So they stop at one of their many post office boxes and pick up new credit cards. Sam doesn’t complain nearly as much as he usually does. Actually he doesn’t complain at all. Just looks at the new card with disdain and shoves it into his travel-worn wallet. Dean’s relieved, because the card means a place to sleep and some food for Sammy who is looking way too thin.

They find a hotel close to the ocean that’s over-priced, but Dean doesn’t care. All he wants to do is sleep in a place that smells of salt air. For as long as he can remember, salt has been synonymous with safety and peace, and he just wants a little bit of both.

He forces Sam to eat and pretends to eat himself. He has no appetite. Hasn’t had one in, well, in a very long time. Food holds no interest for him, and besides, he’s pretty sure it’s just going to make a return appearance if he eats it, so what’s the point? He doesn’t miss the concern in Sam’s eyes.

Dean knows Sammy’s worried about him and supposes his little brother has cause. Dean also knows he needs to start talking more, but he just can’t find the strength to speak. His reserves are low, and he’s hemorrhaging too much energy into keeping his thoughts under control, his muscles from shaking, his mind from snapping, and the guilt at bay.

Hemorrhaging, because that damn awful, niggling voice in his head has been squirming its way free, and now he’s losing wars on all fronts. His thoughts are fast and wild creatures he cannot rein in. His hands shake continuously and only relent in their traitorous weakness when he crushes the Impala’s steering wheel between his palms. And his mind is going to snap soon, because he senses it being bent slowly backwards to the point where self-recrimination actually feels good in comparison.

Dean knows he’s in deep shit and knows it’s only going to get worse before the morning comes. He’s going to have to sleep soon, and when he does, he thinks he might remember everything he’s been trying to forget. He thinks the stubborn part of him that’s been trying to shut out the knowing, wriggling voice has finally given in, and maybe it’s for the best. Maybe self-destruction will turn out to be so much easier than all of this.

Yes, Sammy has a right to be concerned, and the part of Dean that is still Sam’s older brother wants to make everything all better for them both. But Dean just can’t figure out how to do that, so he stays quiet and hopes the safe and right things to do will find him in the morning.

888

The walls collapsed when he did, and Dean dreamt too much last night. Now he doesn’t understand what’s happening. He also doesn’t understand what has happened, and he can’t bear to think about what will happen. He’s caught in a limbo of pain and confusion, and the only person who can make it better is gone. He’s still not really sure how that happened, the leaving of his father, but he’s starting to remember more about the event.

The scattered bits of memory from his own trial of not-quite-dying rake across his brain like knives, nails, and railroad spikes. Rake across as any and all sharp things do. Rake across and leave wounds in important places, but not a single hurt is enough to kill him. He feels himself bleeding, deep inside where these wounds do the most harm, and whether he’s bleeding the threads of his past, present, or future, he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t even particularly care, just wishes he can stop whatever clock wields control over time, turn the damn thing back—way the hell back—and start over again. He wants to be Superman and fly backwards across the planet so he can fix what went wrong, fix what never should have happened.

Fix what he never should have allowed to happen.

'Dad. Daddy, I don’t understand. I can’t do this, not without you.'

“Are you okay, Dean?” Sammy asks him, and his voice is laced with such concern, that Dean doesn’t have to look at him to know what expression his brother’s face is wearing. Dean has spent the entire day in bed, and now night is coming and not even the salt air is comforting him anymore.

'No, no, no, I’m not okay,' he thinks.

“I’m fine, Sam. Lemme be,” he says, and is relieved that the despair coating his throat and face like a badly chosen color of wall paint is hidden behind the lines of the flat hotel pillow.

Sam backs off, and Dean’s slowly drawn back into a deep sleep where he dreams of playing with a Ouija board, of a father’s senseless watching, and of the exquisite woman who speaks soft words that make too much sense.

Words and words and words echo throughout his sleeping awareness. Words he doesn’t want to remember, but which are forced upon him anyway.

'It’s your time to go, Dean, and you’re living on borrowed time already.'

'The fight’s over.'

'You’re not getting back in your body and that’s just facts.'

'Today’s your lucky day, kid.'

'I just want you to know that I am so proud of you.'

When he wakes, it’s to the sensation of a tear-dampened pillow, crusted, swollen eyes, and a throat clogged with too much sorrow.

'Oh, Dad. Daddy, what did you do?'

It’s very early to be awake, but thankfully, Sammy’s still sleeping. Dean turns the pillow over to hide the evidence of his grief and stumbles his way to the bathroom. He’s still weakened by exhaustion, but he thinks he can manage a shower. He’s trying not to think of anything important while he undresses, but once underneath the water’s soothing spray, a wave of grief hits him so hard that he falls to his knees. The water continues to fall across his shoulders and back, and although it’s trying to comfort him, the gentle spray does nothing but magnify his pain.

'I wasn’t worth it, Dad,' he thinks. Last night’s dreams and niggling voices helped him to finally remember all of what happened in the recent, ugly past, and he knows his father’s death was a sacrifice. A sacrifice for a dying son who just was not worth it.

He fists his hand and crams it against his mouth as he tries to smother the sobs that are ripping through him and tearing at the wounds the sharp things made in him the night before.

Sam finds him later, crouched in the corner of the bathroom. He’s half-dressed and half out of his mind, and when he sees Sam he laughs. The sound echoes unpleasantly within the confines of the tiled room.

“Dad would’ve had our hide if he had found out about the Ouija board, Sam,” he says, and the look of dismay and confusion on his brother’s face makes him laugh out his horror again.

“I know, Dean,” Sam says ruefully. Dean knows Sam’s expecting a dark conversation to ensue and has been waiting for it to happen since their father’s death.

“No chick flick moments, Sammy-boy,” Dean says in a voice so choked with hopelessness he can barely get the words out.

“Dean—"

“No, Sam. No,” Dean says in that awful, broken way. “I won’t.”

And then, to prove his resolve and the extent of his stubbornness, he stands up and shuffles his way past his brother and any chance for absolution that might have been offered.

888

It’s too soon for him to be hunting yet, and Dean knows it by the way his body talks to him in the well-known language of pain. But though he knows it’s too soon, Sammy doesn’t, and that’s all that’s important now.

Dean needs the flowing blood the hunt can provide; needs it to replace what’s leaking from the wounds inside. And although what he’s gaining isn’t exactly what he’s losing, it offers him some semblance of life and familiarity.

So, since he needs the hunt and the blood, he hides the pain from Sammy. And it’s too early, but if he waits any longer it’s going to be way too late.

And it’s a wendigo in Fullerton and a haunted house in Saugerties. A poltergeist in Willow Grove and a vengeful water sprite in Centerton. It’s pain and blood and the cessation of tears. It’s the importance of the fight in the absence of forgiveness and worth. It’s a cracked rib in Baltimore and a fractured arm in Fredricksburg. And it’s the here and now instead of the past and future.

“What are we doing, Dean? Where are we going?” Sam asks one twilight hour when they are following a lazy road through another sleepy Southern town.

'Nowhere. Anywhere. I have no fucking clue,' Dean thinks, and this is the truth.

But he lies to Sammy, because he made a deathbed promise to his father, and he’s not going to break it. Not ever.

“We need to do what Dad would want us to do. We’re hunting, and we’re going where the hunt takes us.”

He can’t say anymore, because he doesn’t have the energy, and he has no clue how he managed to mention Dad without his voice quavering. Sam’s obviously not satisfied with the answer, but Dean’s too tired to fight again. Thankfully, Sam seems to understand and keeps his mouth shut.

And although Dean doesn’t want to fight his brother, he’s more than willing to take on any other evil thing. He fights so he can forget his past, and he tries not to think of the future sprawled out in front of him in a bleak landscape that is missing the tall figure of his father. He pays attention only to the present, and here there is the hunt in which he can hide from all the other aspects of time by camouflaging himself with blood.

And although life is on hold and Sammy’s concerned, concentrating on the here and now is working just fine for Dean.

Elemental re-posted on Oct. 3, 2006

Mon, 04 Sep 2006 22:20:04 GMT

Okay, so this fic had to be re-posted, because I screwed it up beyond any recognition. Rinkle, you must be experiencing peals of laughter at my complete ineptitude!!! And I don't blame you one bit!!! Anyway, I re-posted it on October 3, 2006, so it's there if you want it. I should have just deleted this entry, but I wasn't ready to say good-bye to the lovely reviews.... I hope you all understand. Good news is that I've finally gotten the hang of the lj-cuts. Here's the URL: emrys777.livejournal.com/2558.html#cutid1

GenFic: Choices and the Ways to Die

Fri, 04 Aug 2006 04:07:03 GMT

Choices and the Ways to Die

She is absolutely and succinctly fine. So fine that Dean feels the attraction for her before she even steps completely into the smoky, front room of the bar. He eyes her appreciatively and takes a long, slow sip of his beer. She’s wearing a fitted, red dress that’s the exact same color as her lipstick and a pair of red high-heeled shoes that would break the ankles of any other woman. He wants to whistle, feels the unaccountable urge to do so, but manages to restrain himself.

She steps into the dim light, and she’s perfect, and he wants her right fucking now, but he turns away from her and takes another swallow of his beer instead. He’s aware that the air in the bar is thickening and that the music is blasting from the jukebox like a warning.

'Ooh, ooh, Witchy Woman. She’s got the moon in her eyes.'

Dean wants to laugh at the twisted relevance of the song, but he still keeps his cool as Don Henley continues to croon.

She notices him almost immediately which is way too fast for Dean’s comfort. He briefly considers what it is that she must see in him, what it is amongst the myriad of his qualities that draws her so quickly to him. Because there is no doubt, that despite all of the other men in the room, this woman is drawn to him and only to him.

He had known that this would be the way of it. Had told Sam that it would be so. Had always had his suspicions.

But he doesn’t really understand why.

He sees her eyes widen slightly, and then all questioning thoughts dissipate as she sidles up to him. She looks even more beautiful up this close, and he hadn’t thought that was possible. It’s a deadly beauty, to be sure, and he makes certain to keep that fact as near to the forefront of his mind as possible.

But even that important awareness is dispelled as a haze of something strong and undeniable descends upon him. He easily recognizes the feeling as powerful desire, the desire for release. And even though the type of release that he seeks is suddenly unclear to him, he is completely certain that she can grant it.

Easily, happily, enjoyably.

She touches his hand with terribly soft fingertips, and he hears an echo of a voice and so begins to understand the nature of the escape she is offering.

'That’s the difference between you and me. I have a mind of my own. I’m not pathetic like you.'

“Buy me a drink?” she asks him, and her voice is everything he would expect. Tainted and innocent and full of the otherworldly danger that is the nature of her beauty.

He nods and orders her a glass of white pinot, because she strikes him as that sort of woman. Sweet and dizzying all mixed together in a mystical strangeness.

His voice is steady and sure as he speaks to the bartender. She smiles at the tawny drink that is set before her and takes a dainty sip.

Dean’s throat goes dry, and he takes a calm swallow of his own drink.

“I knew you were coming here, Hunter. I’ve felt you walking this earth for some time,” she says and invades him far enough to playfully finger the amulet around his neck. She’s touching and twisting the leather cord, and Dean hears that unbearable voice again as another wave of haziness descends.

'But things will never be the way they were before. I don’t want them to be.'

And she’s fucking caressing the amulet, and Dean knows that this is trouble. That the whole reason he’s here is because the amulet is supposed to protect him from her as it had from the strigoica. But as the memory of his brother’s words—those words that described his brother’s hatred of him, those words that described his brother’s desperate need for escape from him—as the memory of those words rings and echoes through his head, Dean realizes that he really, honestly, seriously doesn’t care that the succubus standing next to him in this wasteland of a bar is going to kill him.

888

He doesn’t even know how they ended up in this motel room. Doesn’t know if he drove, or if she drove, or if Sammy followed them both.

And he still can’t bring himself to care.

She’s dancing slowly with him now, sweet, sweet Death. It’s just a small tumble of her hips, a subtle sway of her shoulders, but the dance is slowly driving him insane with need.

“It won’t hurt,” she whispers, almost reverently, like she is offering him something hallowed and true. “It won’t hurt, and I’ll ease your pain and give you pleasure in return.”

He can’t speak, because it’s the first time anyone, human or not, has ever recognized his pain. He’s been fine with that, because overall, the pain has been something he can deal with, something that bravado and denial can overcome. But her acknowledgement of it makes it more real and serious, somehow.

She touches him again with one perfectly polished fingernail, a slow, drawn out grazing of his cheek. He idly notices that the polish is the same color as the dress, shoes and lipstick, and that the glancing touch almost hurts, but not quite. Instead, as she touches him, his real pain flares and suddenly becomes something that bravado can’t hold back. It’s as if she has torn down the walls that have held back the flood of his life’s hurt, and now he’s feeling it all in its entirety and has no protection from it.

He feels the flutter of his soul struggle under the weight of that lifetime of anguish. That part of him that thinks of Sammy is still there, it is still serving its purpose. But then a wall of mist slams into him, and even though he can still hear and feel Sammy, he doesn’t want to anymore.

'When this is over, you’re gonna have to let me go my own way.

'‘Cause I’m getting pretty tired of taking your orders.

'I’d sleep a month. Go back to school. Be a real person again.

'‘Cause you always do what he says without question? Are you that desperate for his approval?'

“Yes,” Dean whispers as she kisses the hollow at the base of his throat. He thinks back again to what his brother said in the rat hole that is their combined past, and knows that he will go willingly now. He isn’t even capable of finding it odd that he’s thinking of his little brother at this moment when a lethal and exquisite woman is pressed against him and sucking desperately on his lower lip. But those words, those cutting words that Sammy spoke in a tone so gentle that it caused the slow slide of emotions that have led Dean to this place, those words are now and always with him, always too close. Much closer, even than this woman who is making a serious attempt to defy conventional physics and occupy his body’s space at the same time that he is.

He feels a sharp thrum of pleasure, and thinks that it is so much better to do it this way than to continue dying slowly from pain that is agonizing and pure suffering.

She forces his head down to her lips and kisses him hard. The amulet is a burning piece of metal that is scorching the skin on his chest, but he doesn’t even notice its warning plea as mind-blowing need courses through the rest of him. She deepens the kiss, and his legs buckle.

He’s crumpled on the floor kissing her with single-minded focus, weakening but uncaring of anything but her mouth and body.

Two shots ring out and then two more. She’s suddenly gone, and the rest of him is drifting towards the floor.

Four shots, he thinks. Four shots. The same number that Sammy fired at him in Ellicott’s asylum. Four shots. Four. The unluckiest of numbers.

Because now, she’s gone, and so is the pleasure, and all that is left is the pain that he doesn’t know how to live with anymore.

888

“What the hell were you thinking?! You weren’t supposed to go anywhere with her! You just left me waiting alone in that back alley! What the fuck, Dean?”

Sammy’s pacing and not really looking for answers, which is fortunate since Dean can’t give him any. He’s too busy coming back into his consciousness and wishing that he could go back to where he was.

“I’m getting pretty sick of saving you from beautiful women, Dean,” Sam says, angrily. He mutters for a while longer but then abruptly stops his pacing and griping when he sees Dean’s eyes are open to slits.

“Dean? Are you awake?”

Dean’s only able to groan, but he figures it’s a good start. He’s feeling weird and mixed-up, almost as if he’s going to cry, scream and laugh all at the same time. He tries to push all of the emotion where it belongs, far, far back and away from his surfaces. But as he shoves and beats back the multitude of feeling, he is frightened to discover that there’s no place for it all to go.

“Sammy?” he queries, and his voice is choked with grief, pain, and overwhelming sadness.

“Right here, Dean. I’m right here,” Sam says, gently. He sits on the end of the bed that Dean is lying on, and Dean can see the surprise in his little brother’s eyes when he desperately reaches out to clasp the younger man’s hand.

“Sam? What happened?” Dean asks. He feels raw and out of control, and he can’t seem to stop grasping Sam’s hand.

“She took you. Again, Dean! This happened again.”

“Huh. Not part of the plan, was it?” he tries to sound cavalier, but fails miserably.

“No, Dean. It wasn’t. I thought you said that the amulet would protect you from her. Look at you! She almost killed you, man! As far as I can tell, it had no effect on that bitch.”

Dean’s confused. He’s confused on so many levels that he can’t even figure out how to begin unraveling his thoughts. Why the fuck hadn’t the amulet worked? It should have worked. And how could a little sexual tension brought on by a succubus wreak havoc on the best part of him, the part that withstood the strigoica’s painful attentions, the part of him that never quit?

He’s struggling with the dizzying sensations of uncontrolled emotions and unanswerable questions, when a single thought arises. He’s able to focus on it, to stand in the middle of his mind where all the chaos is swirling around him and yet he is still and quiet and able to concentrate on one, simple thought.

Hadn’t he read somewhere, a long time ago, when he was an adolescent and a boy and things like succubi held him in dark curiosity, hadn’t he read that nothing protected the one who gives a life freely?

Had he done that? Had he given his life? Given up his life to her?

He considers how much he is feeling now and remembers things that were once said to him by his little brother. Stinging, aching, hurting things that he had never wanted to hear and doesn’t want to remember now.

The pain spikes within him, and he suddenly suspects that, yes, he probably had given up his life to her.

It’s a problem, and now that he knows it exists, he’ll figure it out. But he’s not going to tell Sammy about it, because that would make the confusion of this situation much too untenable for his fracturing endurance.

“Huh,” he says, and it’s a gasped breath of air. “Guess it doesn’t work on succubi. We should ask Dad about it the next time we see him.”

Sam looks like he’s about to argue, but doesn’t. He sits there and studies Dean carefully. Dean wants to squirm under the knowing scrutiny, but he doesn’t have the strength.

“Guess we should,” Sam finally says, and takes a firmer hold on Dean’s hand. “You know, you’re really starting to push it with the whole getting-killed-by-gorgeous-weird-things, and I don’t know how many more times I’m going to want to try to save your ass. It’s starting to piss me off and make me tired.”

Dean supposes that Sam’s feeble attempt at lightening the mood has something to do with the fact that his smart-mouthed, son-of-a-bitch, tough-as-nails, older brother is shaking like a leaf and holding hands with him.

“Bitch,” he mutters, and feels something close to normal returning. The pain is still unbearable, but Sammy’s giving him the chance to get a handle on it and find all of those hidden places where he normally tucks the hurt away.

“Jerk,” Sam mutters, and it’s almost automatic.

Dean takes as much comfort as he can from the insult and feels the heavy weight of sleep seeping into him. He hopes that when he wakes up, he’ll be able to put himself back together.

“You going to be okay, Dean?” Sam asks, quietly.

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean mutters and then falls asleep with his brother’s hand in his.

Fic: More

Mon, 24 Jul 2006 03:39:56 GMT

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything related to the television program Supernatural, and I’m not gaining any monetary profit for writing this.

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Dean’s awake, but he doesn’t want to open his eyes just yet, because he’s pretty sure he’s not going to be happy when he does. But just as he’s become certain that strong denial will change reality and that he’s really not in a bad—okay let’s be honest here, very bad— situation, he feels the breeze of displaced air as something not quite touches the side of his face. He startles at the sensation, and his eyes open.

“Awww, crap,” he breathes, because it’s just as bad as he imagined.

Maybe worse.

The strigoica’s spirit is hovering over him, and her long hair is what is not quite brushing against his face. She leans down further, causing his skin to sting where she touches him, and suddenly Sammy’s words are flying through his brain.

“Sort of like a shtriga, but more dangerous. Undead spirit that steals souls on top of stealing life forces.”

“Aren’t souls and life forces sort of the same thing?” Dean had asked.

“Not quite. The life force animates a body. The soul, well, it’s just more. You know?”

Dean had been shocked that his geek brother couldn’t seem to put definition to word and had been about to harass him about it when Sammy got a few words in ahead of him.

“Don’t even start, Dean. People with better minds than you and me have been trying to define the soul for centuries, and they still haven’t managed. I doubt that you can do any better.”

Dean had cursed himself, because usually he was good at coming up with a smart mouth answer to these challenges of Sam’s. But for some bizarre reason, he had found it difficult to even poke fun at the topic of souls and had settled on waving his arms uselessly as he tried to find something appropriate to say.

“Okay, it’s just more. I gotcha,” he had eventually resorted to admitting.

Sam had smiled triumphantly, and Dean had almost—almost—wanted to slap that look off of his face.

And now he’d do almost anything to see that triumphant smirk all over again. Hell, he’d do almost anything to see Sam at all, because he’s figuring that Sam might be able to help him out of what is most definitely a situation gone all fucked up.

He’s thinking all of this, but what he’s seeing is her. And she’s beautiful. All wide, blue eyes, ginger-bright hair, and fine features that he normally would never say no to. Even now, he feels himself giving in to her, leaning towards her ever so slightly.

But she comes too close, practically stretches out and lies on top of his supine body. And since she’s way too fucking close, he feels the loud, out of sync thrum of her hearts beating. Her two hearts.

Sam had said that there would be two, and damn if there aren’t. He’s not quite sure how a spirit can have a heart beat, not to mention two heart beats, but they’re there. And it’s just so god awfully strange that he scuttles out from under her clutches to fall off the edge of whatever surface it was that he had been lying on.

His own heart is now pounding wildly in his chest, and his face still stings where her hair had brushed against it. Again he wonders how a spirit can be so tangible especially when the stinging becomes outright burning. Sweat begins to pop out on his forehead which only aggravates his condition, and he brushes the salty liquid away as he takes in huge, desperate gulps of air.

The witch cackles, and he looks up to see her beauty flash to abject hideousness and then back again. For a moment, the exquisite young woman before him had had the face of a disfigured crone, and Dean fights against a wave of strong nausea.

He looks to his right and has a moment to see the coarse, wood table he had been lying on and to realize that he has no weapons before his brain is awash in adrenaline and he’s pulling himself up and making a move to go somewhere—anywhere—that is away from her. But before even one muscle can twitch in any direction, he’s bound by some invisible force and slammed against the top surface of the table again.

He’s lying there, just fucking lying there and doing nothing as she comes back and starts caressing his face and staring into his eyes as if she were looking for something vitally important.

Windows to the soul, he thinks and tries to turn his face away from her unpleasant searching.

She hisses and hooks her nails into the side of his face as she forces his gaze back to her own. He’s uncomfortable with the way she’s looking at him, and her touch is causing the burning feeling in his skin to increase. He realizes that a small but steadily growing part of him is starting to gibber with unaccustomed terror.

“So bright and shiny, like a new penny,” she mutters wondrously.

He’s momentarily swayed by the resonant tones of her voice, but he fights the allure despite the fact that it eases the terror and pain.

“It’s a surprise that none of my kind has taken you before now. Bright and so shiny,” she says, and she’s practically salivating in anticipation.

Both the burning and her hands move to his neck and then caress further down towards his chest. He senses some sort of power building, and he knows that he’s in the worst situation of his life.

But what Dean doesn’t know is that this strigoica is newly born, young and careless. Abandoned by her elders she knows little except for her over-riding need to feed.

And she knows nothing about how some souls are protected by charms, and spells, and fathers’ knowing hearts. Nothing until she stretches her fingers and they touch the skin of Dean’s heaving chest and something burns her. Oh! How it burns! She curses in some vicious language that is unknown to Dean and pulls her hand away from him. Her hand that had been milky white and as delicate as fine china is now twisted and blackened. She stares at the monstrosity of her limb for a long while before she shrieks in a way that has Dean thinking he’s sure to go deaf. The shrieking goes on for a long time, and he begins to think that if she doesn’t stop soon, he’s going to start begging for the quiet that deafness brings.

It finally stops, and she’s breathing as fast as Dean is. He doesn’t know what happened, but he has the idea that whatever it was, it just saved his life.

And more.

“Take it off!” she commands, and Dean looks at her with a mixture of confusion and shock. “That! Take it off,” she repeats and points with her uninjured hand at the leather cord that is wrapped around his neck.

He feels his eyes narrow as thoughts collide together, and memories with insisting, promising voices drift through his head.

“I have something for you.”

“Aww, Dad. No, please don’t make me wear that thing.”

“You’ll wear it! Always. And I don’t want to see it off of you. Ever.”

“It’s awful, Dad. Please, you’re not making Sammy wear one. Why do—“

“Dean, it’s an order. Put it on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Promise me you’ll never take it off.”

“I promise.”

They had been sullen words describing reluctant promises, but his father may have just saved his life. And more.

“Huh, that’s what that’s for,” he says in a breathy voice. He can move his arms now, and he fingers the amulet that his father gave him so long ago. He silently thanks his father, where ever the hell he is, and re-commits himself to never taking the damn thing off.

Ever.

So instead of foolishly doing what the witch demands of him, he uses his new found freedom to form a fist. Figuring that she must be as tangible to him as he is to her, he strikes her in the face. The blow accomplishes little but it does surprise her, and while she is momentarily startled, he struggles to lift himself off of the table.

He knows that he’s failed when he’s brutally slammed back into the table’s wooden surface. He can’t move, not even to scream, and he realizes that this may not be the stalemate he had been hoping for.

“Take it off, or I’ll have you begging for me to drink that pretty soul of yours,” she hisses.

That’s when the gibbering part of himself—which is by far no longer small—starts up again.

888

How could this have gone so wrong? He and Sam had just been hunkered down in the woods not too long ago, talking and messing around like they usually did while they searched moonlit woods for broken burial grounds. They had just decided to call it a night, that the plots were hidden too well in places far too secret for them to find, and that they would have to kill this strigoica the old fashioned way, with cold iron as it fed, when Dean’s vision had blurred and he had heard Sam’s shout. Then he had woken up on this god damn table—which was going to give him splinters in very bad places, by the way—with the strigoica floating over him. He wondered where Sam was but was pretty sure that he was safe. After all, he had been told by his little brother—his genius little brother—that strigoica tended to be secretive and usually only took one victim at a time.

At least they aren’t greedy, Dean thinks and allows himself to believe that Sam’s okay. That Sam will get him out of this. That Sam’s safe and not dead.

Or worse.

He’s beginning to think that his status is falling into the “or worse” category.

After her initial fury, the strigoica started ‘coaxing’ him to remove the amulet by simply keeping up the touching and caressing. It’s not pleasant and it stings, but Dean withstands it by being a smart ass, and all the while he wishes that he could clutch the necklace—his only source of relief—between his two hands.

But that’s not going to happen, because he’s been immobilized. And he remains that way after she tires of the touching and moves on to the knives.

Shallow cuts, that’s all they are, but there must be spells attached to each blade, because even though the cuts are relatively superficial, the pain goes deep. Deeper than any stabbing he’s ever experienced before, and he’s experienced some humdingers, oh, yes, he has. But these cuts that barely break skin and draw little blood reach past nerve and bone to tear at the meat in his center. He’s screaming, and he knows she’s going to stop soon and command him to take the amulet off again. And he’s wondering if he’ll have the strength to follow through on his promise and keep it on. Wonders if he’ll be able to save his soul from her after all. Wonders if something so indefinable is worth all of this.

After what feels like hours, she does stop, and she does command him to take off the necklace, and even though every organ, tissue, cell and organelle in his body is screaming, “DO IT!” there’s some other part of him that is bellowing, “LIKE HELL!”

It’s this second part of him that occupies most of his attention now and has him begging for Sam. Sammy. It’s the part of him that is attached to his brother, that knows that Sam wouldn’t want him to give up, that believes that Sam will get him out of this. It’s the part that makes him draw together what little moisture is left in his mouth and spit in her face.

She screams her rage now, and he laughs to himself to see that she’s no longer as collected as she has been pretending to be.

Fucking bitch, he thinks.

And that’s when it really gets worse.

Because this has been going on for a long time now. Hours, days, weeks, hell, it could be months or years for all Dean knows. Time is meaningless to him, because it’s just filled up with ubiquitous pain and the struggle for something important but indescribable. But this has been taking a lot of time, and she’s finally impatient.

Impatient enough to forget Dean and find another. It’s gone far past hunger for her and well into rage. She’s going to see him suffer a little bit more—she’s got just enough patience for that—before she scurries off to soul suck someone else.

Dean knows this as well as he knows that the pain he felt before is nothing compared to what’s coming down the pike.

She screams, and he’s quiet, but that’s not from wont of trying. She’s tied him up, good and tight now. Muscles everywhere are locked up, and he’s even having trouble breathing. He worries that she’ll completely stop his diaphragm from moving up and down, worries that he won’t have breath enough to live this out.

But she really does have just enough patience left. Really does want to drag this out a little bit more. Dean knows this part because he’s still breathing. It’s ragged, shallow, and rapid, but it’s breathing nonetheless.

Pressure builds in his chest, and as it passes painful and quickly approaches agonizing, Dean realizes that she’s somehow got invisible hands wrapped around his heart. She’s squeezing his heart for fuck’s sake. She’s trying to crack it open like an egg, and he feels, actually feels it when it closes up so tight that the chambers empty and become devoid of blood.

He can’t even think how bad this all must be for the tissue, can’t even wonder how much more his ticker will be able to take, what with that electrocution and now this. He can’t think about it, because the pain is just too damn much.

His stomach rebels, and he feels the need to puke. But he can’t catch his breath and, oh, so sorry, doesn’t look like she’s going to allow the relief of a good old fashioned heave ho, because now bile and acid are being forced backwards into his stomach. It sits there and simmers and burns, burns, burns.

She cackles gleefully, and he suddenly feels like his heart. Crushed and empty. He wants to scream, but she’s still not letting that happen.

He wants Sam. He wants his little brother so much that if she would allow it, he’d be sobbing out his name. If Sam were here, this wouldn’t be happening. And this may or may not be the truth, but for Dean, it’s all he’s willing to believe right now.

And while he’s concentrating on all the good things that would happen if Sammy were here, the pressure in his chest moves into his head. Intense, blinding pain fills his head, and he’s given the chance to think that now she’s squeezing his brain before everything starts to get muddled.

His brain.

He’s too stupefied to really understand that he finds comfort in this horror. Is no longer able to understand that when the witch moves on to the central part of his central nervous system she ultimately grants him escape and relief from what has suddenly become way too much to handle.

His eyes are dulling, and his breath is slowing, and his mind is emptying fast. It’s over, over, over, and no one would be happier about that than Dean if he were able to think about it anymore.

He’s almost vacant now, almost gone.

Except—

Except there’s still that part of him that’s screaming, “NO!” Still that amazingly strong, bright and shiny part of him that will not let go. He’s not conscious of it, can’t feel it or think about in any real way. But it’s there, and it’s still screaming for Sammy.

That part of him is still fighting when his empty eyes see the strigoica step back and twist her head in a way that conveys puzzlement. The pressure on Dean’s internal organs eases and then slacks off completely, and the witch slumps and melts into the ground.

If Dean were conscious anymore, he’d think that she looks just like the Wicked Witch did when Dorothy splashed water on her at the end of The Wizard of Oz. He would think this is cool, because he really loved that movie as a kid.

But his eyes are closed, and he’s no longer cognizant of anything around him. It ain’t a healing sleep, but it’s better than he’s been given for a while now.

And he’d say he is thankful for it, but he’s not saying anything and won’t be for a while.

888

He wakes some time later. He’s not sure where he is, but he knows it’s not where he was, because there are no splinters digging into his ass.

Instead, there are tubes, and leads, and beeping sounds all around. It’s bright, and the place smells abhorrently like antiseptic, and he thinks he’s in a hospital room, but that news would be too good to believe right now.

He turns his head, just a little bit because apparently that’s all his body is going to allow for the moment. But it’s enough, because he’s able to see Sammy slumped forward in a hard chair with his sleeping face pressed into the side of Dean’s bed.

“S..S..Sam,” he tries to say, and the only reason he has the strength to try is because he’s finally willing to believe that this is a hospital room. He doesn’t really accomplish saying his brother’s name, but apparently the whispered stutter is enough, because Sam’s body immediately springs up. Dean would laugh at the dazed look on his little brother’s face, but he doesn’t have the strength. Actually, that’s what he tells himself. In truth, it’s just that he doesn’t have the inclination right now.

“Dean! You’re awake!” Sam exclaims way too loudly.

No shit, Sherlock, Dean thinks but given the circumstances, he’s willing to keep it to himself.

“Wha?” he asks instead and can only hope his brother is psychic enough to understand what he can’t quite verbalize.

Sam offers Dean a sip of water for which Dean is grateful. He takes a moment to let the liquid ease the pain in his throat, and then meaningfully glares at Sam who shrugs.

“She took you. Took you right from under my nose,” Sam says, guiltily. Dean wants to yell at his brother for adding to his already significant burden of remorse, but his throat still isn’t working right, and he knows the chewing out will have to wait until later. “I didn’t know where she took you, and I didn’t know how much time you had. Ended up deciding to find the burial place, because I figured it would be easier to find her grave than it would be to find her spirit’s lair.”

Thinking how difficult that particular decision must have been for his brother, Dean grimaces. Sam catches it and nods knowingly.

“Yeah, it kind of sucked,” he admits quietly. Dean wants to pat his hand reassuringly, but all of his strength is being focused on just staying awake and hearing Sam’s side of things. “Took a while, but I found it. Burned her, and then went looking for you. That took—too long. I’m sorry.”

Dean can imagine all too well the panic that Sam must have felt as the minutes ticked by way too fast. Can guess at the horrors that had danced through Sam’s head like demons made to twist and torture every thought and feeling that manifested. When he’s stronger, he’ll tell Sam about how the amulet protected him, and he’ll downplay what happened. Sam won’t believe him because he’s the one that found Dean broken and bleeding in places where blood shouldn’t flow.

But that’s for later.

Right now, Dean just says, “S’okay, Sammy,” and tries to smile.

The smile doesn’t quite work, and Sam’s looking upset, and Dean suddenly wants to tell him that he’s learned what a soul is. Well, what his soul is, anyway. He wants to say that it’s the part of him that’s Sam, and that it’s the best part of him. It’s the part of him that screams out for Sammy when everything is at its worst, and it’s the part of him that just will not give up a fight because it will not give up on his brother.

Just this once, he wants to let Sam in on the secret.

He opens his mouth, and the words almost, almost slip out. But he catches himself, shudders, and only repeats, “S’okay, Sammy.”

He closes his eyes to avoid Sam’s look of confusion. He knows now that soul calls to soul, and that Sammy’s has just seen something big and important. Sam’s going to want to talk about what he might have just seen in Dean’s face. Right now, Dean doesn’t have the strength to try to avoid that conversation but knows that later he will.

So he closes his eyes and lets himself drift off to sleep, all the while trying hard to stifle the tears which could be of joy or of sorrow.

Either one.

Fic: Not Talking About It

Sat, 22 Jul 2006 04:11:47 GMT

It’s been over three months since Sam has been this close to his brother. All he wants to do is clutch him to himself, but he knows that before he can do that he has to hurt Dean first.

He’s crying the whole time the Latin words are streaming from his mouth. Crying hard, but not hard enough to make the words unintelligible. Sam’s been waiting for this moment for a quarter of a year, for thirteen long weeks, for ninety-one interminable days.

The exorcism is hard, probably the hardest Sam has ever done. But he never even considers the fact that he may fail, because it’s Dean. Dean. And that fact in addition to the correct pronunciation of the words is all Sam allows himself to think about right now.

But it is a hard exorcism and long, so Sam has enough time for one additional worry to prey on his mind. He worries about how strong this demon is, and what it may have done to Dean during the eternity that was just over three months.

But he pushes that thought away, because right then, the demon finally is pushed out of Dean’s mortal coil. The black cloud dissipates and is sent to a place Sam sure as shit never wants to visit. Sam’s legs flop out from under him, and he’s abruptly staring at Dean’s shoes. But a moment later, Dean collapses and lies prone on the dusty floor.

Sam startles and finds the strength to push his body across the three feet of floor that separates him from his brother. He coughs on the cloud of dust that drifts over and around them both.
Dean is quiet for a moment until Sam gently touches his shoulder.

“Dean?” Sam queries, and isn’t even embarrassed when his voice wobbles and cracks on the single, beloved syllable.

Dean sobs once and burrows his face into the crooks of his outspread arms. But he doesn’t make any other sound or move any further than that.

And Sam is suddenly scared.

888

His big brother doesn’t resist as Sam shuffles him into the hotel room he’s checked them into for the night. Dean’s right arm is stretched awkwardly across Sam’s shoulders, and his body hangs limply at Sam’s side. Sam knows that despite Dean still being conscious, he would not be able to move himself anywhere without help.

He still hasn’t said a word, and Sam doesn’t like the vacant look that has taken the place of Dean’s normally shrewd and knowing expression.

He is pliable and accepting when Sam pulls him into the bathroom. Sam hopes a shower will release his brother from this strange trance he’s in but figures at the very least the warm water will lessen the shivers that are unabatedly wracking Dean’s body.

Dean throws up twice as Sam is fighting to take off his clothes, and then once more in the shower. Sam is near tears by the time he manages to redress Dean and get him in bed, but he cleans up the vomit afterwards without complaint.

He leaves the bathroom and is suddenly struck by the fact that his brother is finally with him again. He considers calling their dad, but John hasn’t answered any of his previous cries for help, and Sam figures he can sure as hell wait a bit.

So instead, he pulls a chair up to Dean’s bed and studies his brother’s sleeping form.
He stays up all night and fights the returning urge to hold onto his brother and never let go.

888

It’s a week later, and Dean hasn’t spoken one word since Sam got him back. He barely eats, and Sam practically has to force feed him what little food he does ingest. Actually, Dean hasn’t been doing much of anything, except sleeping, and it’s starting to get on Sam’s nerves.

But right now, Dean’s sitting upright and looking at a glass of water with a dazed expression on his face. Sam prods his shoulder and ignores the flinching that follows.

“Drink it, Dean,” Sam says sternly.

Dean doesn’t look at Sam, hasn’t looked at Sam since his return, and this moment doesn’t change that. But he does slowly bring the glass to his lips and sip at the water that is in there.

Sam wants to crow with success, but just barely restrains himself. It’s the first time Dean has done anything practically on his own. Well, okay, he probably drinks the water, because he knows Sam’s going to shove it down his throat if he doesn’t. But that’s not the point.

The point is that he actually drank the goddamn water.

And right now, Sam will take what he can get.

888

One night, three weeks after Sam gets this shell of his brother back, Sam hears Dean muttering in his sleep. Only a moment ago, Sam was sleeping himself, but the sound of Dean’s long-absent voice has him awake so fast he feels as if he’s been drinking coffee all night.

Dean’s voice is hoarse and feeble, but Sam figures the weakness comes from long disuse. He’s now kneeling beside Dean’s bed, and the quiet sounds of that voice are the most perfect music he’s ever heard.

At first, he doesn’t understand what Dean is saying, but then, as stress edges into his brother’s speech Sam begins to get the gist.

“She’s just—no, no, no, no—Just a kid—Doesn’t—No! Stop that!—No, no, no, no!”

And suddenly Dean is screaming. Screaming, and in a way Sam has never heard before. Sam stands straight up and fights a sudden head rush. Dean is thrashing on the bed, and Sam is yelling and hollering himself now. In the end, he has to strike Dean’s face—not once, but twice—to get his brother to wake up.

For the first time since this all started, Dean looks his brother straight in the eye. Sam is sure it’s an accident, is sure that if Dean were fully awake, he wouldn’t be sharing a look with him.
Sam finds himself wishing Dean would stop looking at him.

Because the person who’s looking at him right now isn’t his brother. His self-assured, smart ass, none-too-serious brother is nowhere to be found in that shared look. Sam actually doesn’t know who’s there, but it sure as hell isn’t his brother. For a moment, Sam thinks the demon is back, actually hopes the demon is back. Demon possession he can fix. It’s what’s left over after the possession that has him fumbling about.

But there is no demon here before him, just like there is no Dean. Samhoped there was some part of Dean left in this corporeal shell, but a shell is really all that is there. Sam’s mouth falls open as he solemnly stares at this empty man, and he suddenly realizes he may not be able to fix this.

“Dean, please,” he begs after his body begins to acknowledge the despair. His hand is on Dean’s shoulder, and he tries to pull him into an embrace.

Dean shudders once and hides his face in his pillow.

Before long, Sam knows his brother is sleeping again.

888

Three months after Dean is no longer possessed, Sam returns from a short trip to the convenience store that is right up the block to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed.

He’s got a gun in his hands.

Sam never likes to leave Dean alone anymore, but there are times when he has no choice. He always makes sure to keep their time apart brief. He has become a slave to his watch, and to his worry and fear.

He is beginning to resent his brother, and he can’t think about his father’s continued absence without flying into a useless fit of rage.

Anyway, when he finds Dean sitting up, he takes it as a positive sign at first. Dean actually has been finding his way back, but very slowly. Sam is just relieved he’s not the complete automaton he was that first week. So, now Dean is sitting up, and Sam is happy because voluntary sitting up is progress.

He’s smiling and is about to say something useless and quirky when he sees the gun in Dean’s hands.
He drops the bag of junk food he bought and resists the urge to pounce on his brother and wrestle the gun away from him. Instead, he moves slowly toward Dean until he is almost in touching distance.

“Dean?” Sam asks.

Dean doesn’t look up, but he hands over the gun.

“Too easy,” he whispers hoarsely. “I don’t deserve it.”

Sam didn’t think there was any part of his heart left to break, but he sure as hell was wrong about that. He takes the gun with numb hands and doesn’t know if he’s ever going to be able to breathe again.

But the most fucked up part of this little scene is that Sam can’t help but be a little bit ecstatic that his brother just spoke to him outside of his nightmares.

888

Sometime in and around the sixth month of this living hell, Dean develops a cold that turns into pneumonia. Sam knows it’s pneumonia, because a doctor tells him so. He was so scared of the wet, deep coughing that he took Dean to a hospital that turns into their home for a week.

Midway through the week, a different doctor advises Sam to allow Dean to talk to a psychiatrist. Sam wants to laugh at the suggestion but is afraid he won’t be able to stop if he starts.

He somehow finds the words to politely tell the doctor to shove his opinion up his ass and stumbles down the hallway to Dean’s room.

Sam isn’t stupid. He knows Dean needs to talk to someone, but the problem is that Dean, his Dean, would never allow it. And besides, this Dean isn’t really talking to anyone anymore. And furthermore, what the hell would either Dean be able to say? ‘Yeah, I’m fucked up because I was possessed by a demon’ isn’t going to wash in the traditional sphere of psychiatry.

Dean is lying in the hospital bed looking pale and wasted. Sam sits down in the worn chair he has claimed for himself. He watches as Dean struggles with another nightmare and manages to coax him awake before it gets too bad. Dean looks up at him with something that may or may not approximate gratitude, and Sam smiles. Dean coughs heavily, and his eyes drift closed seemingly of their own accord.

“Thanks,” his big brother whispers, and Sam feels the need to cry again.

He distracts himself by thinking of how lucky they are that the demon, although obviously cruel and destructive in ways Sam doesn’t know about yet, was careful about keeping the bad stuff to itself. Sam knows something happened, he just doesn’t know what. He’s been looking for news articles about little girls who died or are missing and hopes to never see one in which a witness describes a suspect that has Dean’s face.

It’s been six months, and Sam hasn’t read or heard one such case. Sitting in the hospital room as Dean succumbs to sleep, he picks up the newspaper and turns to the sports page first.

888

Nine months, and Sam is startled awake by a different sound. When he sees that Dean isn’t in his bed, he scrambles out of the warm spot beneath his own blankets. His pillow falls to the floor with a dull thud, and he trips over the folds of the cheap motel comforter.

He’s practically in a cold sweat when he identifies the odd noise as Dean’s muffled sobbing. It’s coming from the bathroom, and Sam pads over to the door and lays his hand on the wood. In the morning, he’ll have a splinter on his index finger. It will get infected, but he won’t care.

For now, he just listens to Dean’s crying and experiences the sudden desire to rush in and console him. But he won’t because this isn’t the first time he’s found Dean crying in the bathroom at night. The first time he actually did find Dean crying, Sam had rushed in. Dean had abruptly stopped the tears, pushed Sam away, and then returned to bed.

If Dean had even yelled or hollered that first time, Sam would be barging into the bathroom right now. Even an angry Dean was a Dean who was expressing some feeling, was a Dean who was that much further down the road to recovery. But it had been an unemotional response that Sam received that first time, and now, the knowledge that Dean would only cut himself off from any emotion if Sam tried to intervene kept Sam from doing anything more than place a longing hand on the bathroom door.

He would rather Dean purge some of the poison the demon left behind by crying alone in the small space of a dark bathroom then ease some of his own pain by trying to soothe away the only form of expression Dean was allowing himself.

Gradually, the crying subsides. Sam stumbles to his own bed, looks around for the fallen pillow, and barely makes it under the tangled covers in time to pretend to be sleeping when Dean exits the bathroom.

His eyes are closed, but he hears Dean take a shuddering breath and then slowly move toward Sam’s bed. Sam wonders if his brother knows that he is actually awake. In the past—the past that now seems so far away that Sam doubts it exists anymore—the older, protective Dean could always tell when Sammy was faking. Now, Sam has his misgivings about his brother’s capabilities.

His suspicions are justified when he feels the abrupt brush of Dean’s fingertips across the top of his head. Dean never would have given into such an impulse if he thought Sam was awake.

Sam forces himself not to tense up in surprise as Dean slowly draws his hands further down to push his long bangs out of his eyes. He wants to lean into the touch, wants to remember what it is like to have some genuine connection with his brother.

“’Night, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, and then Sam hears the whisper of bare feet sweeping across clean sheets. Dean coughs once, a reminder that he is still recovering from pneumonia after all these months, and then his breathing quickly evens out.

Sam brings his own hand up to his head and strokes his hair in an effort to replicate what just happened. In his head, he replays the words Dean spoke to him and feels the burning sting of tears at the corner of his eyes. His throat suddenly aches, and he finds it hard to swallow past that pain.

For the first time since the exorcism, he witnessed a glimpse of his big brother. Sam always thought this part of Dean was inviolate, but recent events had him seriously disbelieving his own truths. Sam has seen Dean slowly recover over the past few months, but he has not observed any part of that recovery which suggests that his protective, big brother was still willing to play the role. He doesn’t realize just how grief-stricken his fears made him until Dean offers the hope that big brother is coming back to drive Sam nuts by calling him “Sammy.”

Stupid, but now, oh so beloved nickname.

His tears fall silently, and his fingers brush through his hair until he too falls soundly asleep, all the while grasping desperately to the hope that has unexpectedly been given to him.

888

A month after Dean starts calling him Sammy again, Sam considers bringing up the idea of hunting. When he catches Dean staring blindly at nothing for too long, he sets the idea aside.

Dean is better. His willingness to talk to Sam about anything other than those weeks when he had been demon-bound is increasing. He eats and drinks without having to be reminded, although he still is losing too much weight. He ventures out of the motel room on occasion, but only when Sam goes with him.

Instead of suggesting a hunt, Sam says that he wants to go to the beach. They haven’t been moving around too much these past few months, but they are now close to the coast. It’s warm, and Sam thinks Dean’s complexion could use some help.

Dean shrugs and says, “Whatever.”

The next day they go. Sam carries his chair and towel and finds a spot close enough to the ocean to make him happy. The roaring rush of the waves seems to have an immediate relaxing effect on Dean, and the absence of tension makes Sam all too aware of how strained Dean’s posture has been for far too long.

“Taking this a bit far, aren’t you, Sammy?” Dean asks when Sam sets up the beach umbrella. Sam is too distracted by the faint but welcome glimmer of sarcasm he hears in Dean’s voice to answer. He shrugs instead.

Dean takes his shirt off, and Sam is shocked by how emaciated his brother has become. Sharp bones jut out in places where muscle used to be, and Sam can’t look away.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Man, you need to eat more,” Sam says, without thinking. He immediately regrets his words when Dean looks embarrassed and puts his shirt back on.

Sam wants to say something else, but Dean only sits in the chair and shuts his eyes against the mid-day sun. By now, Sam instinctively knows when to stop trying, and he reluctantly takes out his book and settles down into his own chair.

But it’s all made good, later when a girl walks up and begins to flirt with him. The flirting is pleasant, but also sorrowful in its own way because this girl should be flirting with Dean but she doesn’t even spare him a glance.

No, the good part comes when Dean teases his brother about the girl and then says that a quick swim is in order.

And the really good part comes when they’re both in the buoyant salt water, drifting passively through moving waves. That’s when Dean looks up at the perfect sky and laughs with something approaching joy.

888

A year. It’s been a whole year since they’ve hunted anything. Sam is casually scanning newspapers as he sits at the small table that passes for a breakfast nook in this, one of their better, more expensive motel rooms. He is now certain there will be no stories connecting Dean to any crimes, but he will still look. Just in case.

Dean is sitting across from him, eating a bowl of sugary cereal Sam gave up at least twelve years ago. He stops chewing, leans forward, and peers at a story that is in the back of the local newspaper, the front page of which Sam is quickly examining.

“Huh,” Dean says. It’s meant to sound nonchalant, but Sam immediately tenses.

“What?”

“There’s a story here that seems just up our alley,” Dean says, and Sam’s heart skips a beat.

He turns to the article Dean indicates and sees the picture of a pre-adolescent girl who apparently was hospitalized the night before after sustaining a concussion. The girl had been hit with a brick while sitting by herself in her upstairs room. The doctors claimed the brick would have had to have been thrown for it to have caused the damage it did. The parents were being investigated, but each claimed the other innocent of any wrongdoing. Needless to say, they were both distraught.

“Probably a poltergeist,” Dean says around another mouthful of cereal.

Sam wonders if Dean has noticed this article because of the girl. He has learned nothing about the girl to whom Dean cries out practically every night. Sam worries about what happened to her but has an idea it wasn’t good.

Sam carefully eyes Dean, who is trying to look blasé but is only pulling off awfully uncomfortable.

“Dean, are we ever going to talk about it?” Sam poses the question he has waited an entire year to ask.

Dean looks him straight in the eye and says, “Never.”

It was a poltergeist, and oh, it felt so fine to toast its nasty bones.

--Finis—

SPN Fic Knowing Better

Fri, 21 Jul 2006 05:50:54 GMT

A chicken. A fucking chicken was responsible for all of this.

Okay, so it was a heart-eating sidekick of a long dead, but spiritually present Seminole witch, but a chicken nonetheless.

Sam anxiously paced the confines of their small motel room and tried to ignore the awful sounds of retching that were coming from behind the closed bathroom door. Visions of the evening’s events flashed unwillingly through his brain, and he lengthened his strides in an effort to further distract himself.

The job was supposed to have been a simple salt and burn. Just a little sodium chloride and kerosene, and the ghost of the witch who had been haunting half of the population of Atwood, Oklahoma would simply go away.
They had thought that the hardest part would be finding the bones, but a few well-placed questions and intelligent research had made that part of the hunt relatively easy. Hell, even Dean’s moonlight tussling with the ghost had seemed like child’s play to Sam who had watched in between fumbling around with the salt and matches.

But the chicken. Now, the damn chicken, well, that had just been unexpected.

As Sam had been about to light the witch’s bones, the chicken had come squawking near the gravesite. It had moved fast, but Sam hadn’t given it much thought, because it was, after all, just a chicken.

It had been Dean who noticed something wrong with the bird. And it had been Dean who, just as Sam dropped the lit match into the witch’s too shallow grave, had attacked the creature by diving at it and dropping its feathered ass away from his little brother. The sight of a grown man tackling a chicken and then rolling around with it in the grass was one that had made Sam want to laugh. And as the bones ignited, and the witch’s ghost suddenly disappeared, and Dean still struggled with the chicken, Sam had gleefully thought of the fodder he now had for mentally torturing his older brother.

It wasn’t until Dean had cried out that Sam had become concerned.

After that, when Sam had run to his brother’s side, they had managed to dispatch the unnaturally strong animal with a quick twist of its neck accompanied by a healthy dousing with holy water, all of which was followed by another, smaller, salt and burn. On the walk back to the car, Dean had explained to Sam that the chicken hadn’t been a chicken at all, but a Lokha. Incredulous of this unexpected display of knowledge, Sam had stared at his older brother until Dean had sheepishly explained that he and their father had encountered one of the creatures once on another hunt.

“Nasty things,” Dean had muttered. “Nasty bite.” And then he had stumbled and fallen to his knees.
That’s when Sam had searched his brother’s body for injuries and found what looked to be a bite low on the front of Dean’s neck.

“Dean?” Sam had asked, unsure of what the wound meant or even how to deal with it.

“They inject poison when they…when they bite,” Dean had muttered. He had then somehow managed to regain his footing and had reassuringly patted Sam’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’s…it’s okay.”

“Dean, how can this be okay?” Sam had asked.

“Won’t kill me. Dad got bit. It ju…just made him sick.”

And then, as if to prove his point, Dean had thrown up all over Sam’s favorite sneakers.

888

Sam stopped pacing when he heard the muffled thump of something heavy falling somewhere behind the still-closed bathroom door.

“Dean?” he called, but received no recognition for his efforts. He moved quickly to the door and knocked on it hard, but that action also elicited no response from his brother. Despite his climbing fear, Sam hesitated to enter the bathroom unannounced. The bathroom was the only area of their lives that offered even a modicum of privacy, and it was an unspoken rule between the two brothers that the secluded sanctity of the room should never be broken.

Considering the extenuating circumstances; however, Sam chose to ignore the prevailing rule.

“God damn it, Dean. You’d better not be naked,” he muttered as he made the decision to open the door.

He found his brother awkwardly sprawled in the small space between the toilet and the shower. The wall at Dean’s back supported most of his upper body, but his slouched posture seemed to suggest that he had tried to stand up and had failed miserably. Shocked as he was by the sight before him, Sam couldn’t seem to find the strength to walk any further into the room. It wasn’t until Dean weakly rolled his head up and stared blankly at him that Sam felt free to move.

He rushed to his brother and tried to find room to position himself in a spot where he could better gauge Dean’s condition. He settled on kneeling in front of Dean’s extended legs before reaching out and placing an assessing hand on the ailing Winchester’s sweat-laden brow.

“Oh God, Dean. You’re burning up,” Sam whispered.

Dean’s eyes rolled in their sockets, but he seemed calmed by Sam’s gentle touch on his face. Given Dean’s state, Sam was happy to be able to offer even that small comfort. As he struggled with the decision of what to do next, Dean startled him again.

“Mu…Mu…Mom?”

Dean’s stuttered word was breathy and weak, but there was no mistaking the longing that was lodged there. Sam had the abrupt vision of a four-year old Dean being tested for fever by their mother’s pursed lips on his brow, and he couldn’t help but struggle against a sudden onslaught of grief.

“No, Dean. It’s me. It’s Sammy.”

“S…S…Sammy?” Dean asked and struggled to focus his eyes. He seemed both satisfied and confused when he finally brought Sam’s image together. Blinking wildly, Dean weakly brought a hand up to Sam’s face, almost as if he were testing the truth of what his eyes were telling him. “Wh…when ya…get…s.s.so big?”

“Dean, you’re sick. I need to get you into bed.”

“Where’s…Mom?”

The words were even weaker now, and Sam wondered if Dean was on the verge of passing out. Dean didn’t seem entirely conscious of his surroundings anymore, and his head was supported only by Sam’s hand, which had remained on his face throughout the conversation.

“Dean—"

“I miss…her. Miss…her. Sammy, where’d she…go?”

Frightened by Dean’s words, Sam stood up and hurriedly saturated a white, hotel washcloth with cold water. Afterwards, he crouched beside Dean again, and wiped his brother’s face down. He was dismayed to feel the heat from Dean’s brow seep too quickly into the cloth, but the cold water seemed to bring Dean a little ways out of his stupor.

“Sammy?”

“Dean, you’re sick. Remember? You were bitten by a crazy chicken.”

“Lokha. Thing’s…called…lokha.”

“Whatever,” Sam said. Later he would wonder about this momentary role reversal, and would suspect, despite the evidence to the contrary, that Dean was almost as much a stickler for detail as he, himself, was. Later, he would realize that the only reason why Dean diminished the importance of research was to drive Sam up a wall. But now, Sam could only think about his brother and of how sick he was.

“Dean, c’mon. I’m going to help you stand up,” Sam said as he leaned forward and gathered his brother in his arms.

Dean tried to help his brother, he really did. But his legs slid across the slick tile of the bathroom floor when he tried to draw them together to support his weight, and he was forced to subject himself to his little brother’s strength. The room spun sickeningly when Sam managed to lift him halfway off the floor, and he didn’t have the strength to gag back the nausea that caught hold of his stomach and clenched it tightly. Luckily, Sam seemed to be in more control than Dean was and managed to position Dean so that he was hovering over the toilet instead of the floor when the vomiting began again.

When it was finished, and both of them were almost completely wrung out and out of breath, Sam made a go of getting Dean out of the bathroom. Dean was better prepared this time and closed his eyes against the dizzying effects Sam’s maneuvering had on him. Still, it took a ridiculous amount of time and more trouble than was expected to move Dean from the bathroom floor to a place under the covers of his bed. And when he was finally tucked in with the blankets drawn excessively high under his chin, Dean was again too weak to truly understand where or when he was.

“Sammy, where’s…Mom?”

Dean’s eyes were closed when he asked the question, so he didn’t see Sam’s look of devastation. Needing time to collect himself, Sam slowly drew the washcloth over Dean’s face again before he answered.

“She’s not here right now, Dean.”

“Dad? He…here?”

“No, Dean. Not right now.”

“Miss ‘em. Miss ‘em both. So much, S..S..Sam.”

“I know, Dean. It’s okay,” Sam said, soothingly, and couldn’t help but turn his face away from the pain that was no longer concealed but instead crawled freely all over Dean’s features. He wondered, with no little anxiousness, just how bad this would get before it was over.

“Sam?”

Furiously wiping at unbidden tears, Sam turned back to his brother and forced himself to stare at the train wreck of emotions that wandered through those unfocused eyes.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Sam…Sammy, can it be…over…n..n..now? Can th..they be back? I w..w..ant it over. Let me…wake..up now, and I’ll be cr..crazy…or d..dying or anything I need to b..be to make this end, but please…can this dream end now?”

The unexpected questions came out as a deluge of sound, and although Sam had no doubt about what Dean was asking, he was still torn apart by the shock of the words. Dean enjoyed hunting to the point where he had an almost irrational obsession with it. To hear how much his brother was willing to withstand just to end the hunt and have both his parents back was disturbing and humanizing at the same time. It was the wish of a four-year old child, and one Dean had apparently never outgrown.

“Dean—"

But instead of listening for a response from his brother, Dean only shivered with fever and settled further into the warmth of the surrounding blankets.

“Don’t leave, Sammy,” he muttered so low that Sam almost missed the words.

And then he was asleep.

888

They stayed in the small motel room for three days while Dean suffered through delirium and Sam suffered with him. On the fourth day, as Sam was seriously considering taking his brother to the hospital, Dean woke up clear-headed.

“Dean? Dean, are you okay?”

“S…Sammy?” Dean still spoke the name weakly, but the look in his eyes was lucid and calm.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam asked as he allowed a little bit of relief to seep in.

“What h..happened?”

“You were bitten by a lokha. You’ve been pretty out of it for the past few days.”

Dean was understandably disturbed by the news. He didn’t remember much past being bitten but could tell by the haggard look on Sam’s face that things had gotten pretty bad.

“I didn’t say anything stupid, did I?” Dean asked as he was hit with the realization of all the embarrassing things he could have said to Sam during his delirious state.

“Nah. Unless you find confessing your undying love to some woman named Carmen embarrassing.”

“Funny, Sammy, real funny. I don’t even know a chick named Carmen.”

“Oh really. You seemed pretty adamant about your affection for this person.”

“You’re so full of shit, little brother,” Dean said with a growl.

Sam laughed as he got the response he had been seeking.

“Don’t worry Dean,” he lied easily. “Your closed off, walled up, unemotional masculinity is intact. You didn’t say a word throughout this whole ordeal. It was sort of freaky considering how much of a loud mouth you usually are.”

“Sam!”

Sam laughed again, but it took some effort this time. He studied Dean’s pale and strained features for a moment and wondered how his brother still managed to find the strength to hide all that pain.

“How do you feel now, Dean?” Sam asked, needing to know and wondering what would be said.

Dean suddenly looked uncertain and scrutinized Sam’s face for a long time before answering. Sam had a moment to hope that Dean would tell the truth, that he would willingly disclose what had been involuntarily given. And yet he wasn’t surprised to be disappointed.

“F..fine. I’m fine now. It’ll all be fine,” Dean insisted.

Sam smiled and nodded, but he knew better anyway.

Finis