Out of time 3/?
Chapter 2: http://caity78998.livejournal.com/1222.html
HOLY CRAP! I'm sooo sorry I didn't update in a while. I don't have much of an excuse really, just I kinda got a little bored and didn't know what to write.. I know, horrible.
But, I got creative and decided to write the next chapter.
Just a heads up, I'll be posting this story on fanfiction.net as well as on here, just because I already have a Supernatural fanfiction posted on there, and I'm generally on there more often.
Worry not, I'll still be updating here too, since this is where I started.
Once again, I do not own anything.
Enjoy. ;)
CHAPTER 3: On The Way Brother
Dean's day was mostly spent hunched over the toilet, puking his guts up, swearing an intestine must of come up after the horrible heaves.
By the time Dean was at least half sure that his stomach had settled for the moment, he was in severe cold sweats, trembling, and grabbing the edge of the bathroom sink until his knuckles were white.
He cautiously stood up to the sink and turned on the tap and rinsed out his terrible tasting mouth, then gently splashed his sticky face. He took a glance in the mirror; he was pale as white, there were dark circles under his eyes, his hair was sticking to his forehead as his body was sweating and shaking.
Woah, I look like crap. He said to himself, as he walked over to flush his discarded stomach contents down the toilet.
To his surprise, the toilet was filled with not disgusting vomit, but blood. His blood.
Dean took a deep breath, and flushed it down, trying not to think of things that could be wrong with him.
Probably just a stomach bug. A really bad stomach bug. It'll pass.
Dean rinses out his mouth and washes his face one last time, and sets out towards the bunker's kitchen in search for water, knowing he should probably get some fluids in him.
After a few minutes, he finishes his glass of water after taking extremely small sips, not wanting to irritate his stomach more than it already was.
He sets down the glass, sits at the table, and checks his watch. 7:43 pm.
Dean took many deep breaths, in, and out, but he couldn't stop the shaking. He closes his eyes, takes another breath, and tries to relax as much as he can, but the shaking continues. This must be one hell of a stomach bug, He thought.
But then again it was hard not to notice the throbbing pain and heat radiating from Dean's right forearm; the Mark Of Cain. Dean gave it a small rub, but the pain never subsided.
He ignored the annoying, painful throb, and went back to his room, where he found his beloved Walkman and headset, convinced that a playlist or two of Metallica could heal any sickness.
He lay on his back on his bed, Metallica continuing on, hoping, maybe, he'll be lucky and get some much needed sleep.
Dean never got past the 3rd song before he was running towards the bathroom once again as his insides screamed and his heart raced.
This was going to be a long night.
---
Sam had finished talking to the 4 teenagers that witnessed Mrs. O'Neil's appearance around 6 pm. He gathered some pretty interesting and helpful information too, and by the looks of it, if Mrs. O'Neil was an angry spirit like Sam had presumed, this hunt would be done in a day, two at the most.
The friends were hesitant at telling their story at first, but after Sam worked his kind hearted, caring FBI agent magic tricks, they were pretty quick to tell him all about the diseased teacher.
Apparently Mrs. O'Neil was having an affair with the school's principle, despite her own marriage and the school board's strict rule about absolutely no sexual relationships between anyone in the school.
The kids Rosalie, Ben, Cody, and Nikki had spotted the two staff making out one day outside the school, which as you would assume was pretty surprising at the least.
They didn't know what they should do at that point, but they were determined that they had to do something, so they all agreed to tell the official school board about the incident.
Just two weeks later, Mrs. O'Neil and the principle were both fired despite their commitment to the school. And to make the best of it, Mr. O'Neil had found out about the affair, later applying for a divorce to the former teacher.
Sam could easily guess that Mrs. O'Neil was devastated to say the least, and he found out that she had swerved her car into incoming traffic purposely after getting pretty drunk one night.
Sam assumed that Mrs. O'Neil had come back to punish the teens for ratting to the school board about her love affair with the principle, which is probably why the friends had seen her pretty angry when the teacher's spirit had appeared.
After doing some more research, Sam had found out she was buried at the White Hill Cemetery, a little over a twenty minute drive from the motel Sam was currently staying in.
He grabbed his duffel bag stuffed a gas can, a bottle of salt, and a lighter, and headed out the door, slinging the back in the bag of his dreadful van.
Before heading to the cemetery, he checked his phone once again, just in case.
No missed calls.
Sam sighed. Dean was obviously fine, why should he bother calling him? He was probably swimming in another bottle of whiskey like he had any other night, Sam thought.
If something was wrong, he would have called. Sam was sure of it.
He turned the ignition, and headed out of the motel's parking lot, despite the horrible nagging feeling that something was terribly, terribly, wrong.
---
An hour had past, and Dean was still retching over the toilet. His throat burned, his head throbbed, his legs were weak, Dean wasn't holding it together as much as he'd hoped.
This time around in the bathroom was much more violent and painful than his last puking sessions.
He spit out more blood, and fell back onto the cold, tiled floor of the bathroom.
Dean clamped his eyes shut and took deep breaths.
In, and out. In, and out.
He went to stand out to the sink, to rinse out his mouth, but unfortunately the change of position caused his nausea to reappear harshly. He barely made it to the toilet before he hacked up another wave of blood.
So Dean lid back down onto the cold tiled bathroom floor, and pulls his knees up to his chest, once again taking deep breaths in attempt to settle himself, not daring to try to get up again.
While in his fetus position on the cold floor, Dean ponders whether he should call Sam about this miserable sickness, but he came to the conclusion that he would call him if things got out of hand.
Sure, Dean was pretty miserable himself, but surely he could handle a little stomach bug, hell, he's handled much worse.
So Dean lid there on the floor, losing track of time, panting in a cold sweat and squeezing his eyes shut from the aches all over his body, and he fell into an uncomfortable nightmare filled sleep.
---
Dean's frightening dreams were about the no other Mark Of Cain. He saw himself murdering innocent people, women and children, cutting of their limbs, slitting their throats, watching them scream in pain and fear.
He saw himself stabbing and killing his friends and everyone he cared for, Bobby, his dad, his mom, Lisa, Ben, Cas, Sam, and the list continued.
He saw Sam, telling him they're no longer brothers again, and telling him to go to hell, then Sam killed him.
He had the same old dreams of hell, as Alistair sliced and diced at him in ways not even Sam could imagine.
So as you could imagine, Dean didn't wake up rather calmly.
Dean woke up with a loud gasp, and his breathing was extremely rapid. His head jolted, colliding with the bottom of the sink in a painful clunk sound.
He let out a loud grunt and attempted to even out his breathing. His body was sweating enormously, soaking him from head to toe, and to make the best of it, now there was an inch and a half gash on the top of his head, causing a trail of blood to trickle down the side of his pale face.
Dean dragged himself up and above the sink, fortunately not causing any horrible nausea to rise once again. Dean turned on the tap and rinsed out his mouth a few times, then splashing water upon his sweating face.
He examined the bleeding gash on his forehead, and concluded that it wasn't deep enough to require stitches, and that a couple butterfly cuts would do the trick, even though there was already a massive multicolored bruise forming around the wound.
Dean considered fixing up the cut right then, but then he remembered the med kit was in Sam's room, and that was just so far for Dean in his weakened state, so he decided to leave it until Sam returned. It wasn't too serious anyways, it could wait.
So instead, Dean attempted to make his way to his room. He needed a change of clothes; his sweat soaked ones were pretty uncomfortable as it is.
The nausea had somewhat subsided, but Dean was finding it extremely difficult to even stand up right. As he made his way to his room, his feet staggered and his arms hanged by his sides, unable to be lifted, like he was drunk.
When Dean made it to his bedroom, he had no choice but to sit down on his bed. He was sure he was ready to pass out, despite his attempts to stay awake and in control. His breathing had quickened and his heart thumped and thumped heavily, and his eyes were closing and opening at a slow pace.
I'll just change my clothes and then I'll lie down. Dean told himself, even though he dreaded going back to sleep and witnessing those terrible nightmares all over again.
After a couple attempts, Dean managed to stand up without falling back down, and he trotted over towards his dresser.
He removed his shirt slowly, not wanting to weaken his body further, and threw it on the floor.
No time to be neat. Dean thought to himself, he could feel unconsciousness threatening to pull him under with extreme force.
He opened up one of the drawers and examined the small collection of T-shirts he had, and that's when it happened.
The pain, it took over Dean's body furiously and boiled his insides. His head was about to explode and his heart was beating like it was ready to burst.
Dean screamed out in pain and his legs buckled, causing him to fall to the floor in agony.
He grasped at his head, pulled at his hair in any attempt to relieve the pain running through his body.
His muscles screamed, his limbs were weak, and Dean's right forearm burned the most.
The Mark screamed at Dean causing him to scream out in pain once again. It was glowing red, along with the veins around it.
Dean punched the floor, over and over, but the pain wouldn't go away. Every inch of his body was on fire, and he couldn't control it.
His heart continued to race and the sweat drenched Dean's body, running down his bare chest.
Dean had no idea what was happening. The pain came on so suddenly.
Dean's body jolted in agony and Dean screamed once more. His knuckles grasped the edge of the dresser, making them white, and the pain would not subside.
He reached for his pocket, where his phone was located, and sent a little prayer when his shaking hands had found it.
He speed dialed Sam's number, eyeing the red glowing mark on his arm.
Please pick up, please pick up.
"Yeah." Sam's voice sent a wave of relief through Dean's agonized body.
"Sam, come back to the bunker, s-somethings wrong, the p-pain Sam, it won't go away, n-need your help Sam.." Dean squeezed his eyes shut and punched the floor once again.
"Dean? The pain? Dean, what's going on?" Sam's tone was on full blown worry now.
"J-just come back... need your help Sammy, make it stop," unconsciousness gloomed over Dean, finally taking him over, crashing his body to the floor in a shaking, pale, sweating heap.
"Dean? DEAN! Are you with me? I need you to talk to me man, I'm on my way." The call ended, and Dean lay unconscious on the floor, phone still in hand.
---
Sam waited in his van for a while until he was sure nobody was going to be coming in and out of the cemetery for the night.
He grabbed his stuff from the back and headed in search for Mrs. O'Neil's grave.
After about 10 minutes worth of reading random headstones, Sam was sure he found the right one.
Eliza O'Neil: A loving wife and friend, may she always be remembered.
Sam grabbed his shovel and started to dig, ignoring the fact that the job would be much less effort and easier if Dean were here to help him.
An hour had passed, and Sam finally reached the casket.
The smell of the corpse didn't bother Sam much anymore, you get used to it after smelling it so many times.
He poured gasoline and salt over the teacher's body, then threw the lighter into the pit, watching as it lit up in flames.
After he was sure that the corpse couldn't burn any more and it was long enough, Sam extinguished the flames, and refilled the hole with the dirt.
Finally, the work was done and Sam headed back towards his dreadful van, grateful that the hunt went well and he could head back to the bunker.
He wasn't sure what would happen when he got back, didn't know what he would expect of Dean and him, but he was ready to go home, ready to face it.
That's when he got the call. He threw his duffel and shovel into the back and shut the door as his phone rang and vibrated in his pocket.
Incoming call: Dean.
Sam smiled, at least he cared enough to call him, he thought.
"Yeah." Sam thought Dean was probably just checking in to see when he would be coming home or how the hunt went.
"Sam, come back to the bunker, s-somethings wrong, the p-pain Sam, it won't go away, n-need your help Sam.." Sam's heart stopped. His breathing sped up. What was Dean talking about? He was fine when he left, what the hell is going on?
"Dean? The pain? Dean, what's going on?" Sam jumped in the car with his keys in his other hand, and inserted them into the ignition, shaking, and worried about his big brother.
"J-just come back... need your help Sammy, make it stop." Sam's heart was racing as he heard a thump on the other end of the call.
"Dean? DEAN! Are you with me? I need you to talk to me man, I'm on my way."
No answer. Sam hung up the phone and sped out of the cemetery, breaking every possible speed limit, desperate to reach his hurting brother.
He didn't care that he left his clothes back at the motel, or didn't care if anyone looked at him funny for driving such a vehicle.
Sam needed to get to Dean, and fast.
---
There you go folks! Chapter 3! Again, incredibly sorry for the wait.
I can't guarantee when chapter 4 will be out, but when ever I can, I'll start to write it.
Thanks a bunch for reading and I would love for you to review.
I will be posting this story on fanfiction.net, just because I love that website and generally I am on there more than this website.
Thanks a bunch, and stay happy;)
----------------------------------------------
HOLY CRAP! I'm sooo sorry I didn't update in a while. I don't have much of an excuse really, just I kinda got a little bored and didn't know what to write.. I know, horrible.
But, I got creative and decided to write the next chapter.
Just a heads up, I'll be posting this story on fanfiction.net as well as on here, just because I already have a Supernatural fanfiction posted on there, and I'm generally on there more often.
Worry not, I'll still be updating here too, since this is where I started.
Once again, I do not own anything.
Enjoy. ;)
CHAPTER 3: On The Way Brother
Dean's day was mostly spent hunched over the toilet, puking his guts up, swearing an intestine must of come up after the horrible heaves.
By the time Dean was at least half sure that his stomach had settled for the moment, he was in severe cold sweats, trembling, and grabbing the edge of the bathroom sink until his knuckles were white.
He cautiously stood up to the sink and turned on the tap and rinsed out his terrible tasting mouth, then gently splashed his sticky face. He took a glance in the mirror; he was pale as white, there were dark circles under his eyes, his hair was sticking to his forehead as his body was sweating and shaking.
Woah, I look like crap. He said to himself, as he walked over to flush his discarded stomach contents down the toilet.
To his surprise, the toilet was filled with not disgusting vomit, but blood. His blood.
Dean took a deep breath, and flushed it down, trying not to think of things that could be wrong with him.
Probably just a stomach bug. A really bad stomach bug. It'll pass.
Dean rinses out his mouth and washes his face one last time, and sets out towards the bunker's kitchen in search for water, knowing he should probably get some fluids in him.
After a few minutes, he finishes his glass of water after taking extremely small sips, not wanting to irritate his stomach more than it already was.
He sets down the glass, sits at the table, and checks his watch. 7:43 pm.
Dean took many deep breaths, in, and out, but he couldn't stop the shaking. He closes his eyes, takes another breath, and tries to relax as much as he can, but the shaking continues. This must be one hell of a stomach bug, He thought.
But then again it was hard not to notice the throbbing pain and heat radiating from Dean's right forearm; the Mark Of Cain. Dean gave it a small rub, but the pain never subsided.
He ignored the annoying, painful throb, and went back to his room, where he found his beloved Walkman and headset, convinced that a playlist or two of Metallica could heal any sickness.
He lay on his back on his bed, Metallica continuing on, hoping, maybe, he'll be lucky and get some much needed sleep.
Dean never got past the 3rd song before he was running towards the bathroom once again as his insides screamed and his heart raced.
This was going to be a long night.
---
Sam had finished talking to the 4 teenagers that witnessed Mrs. O'Neil's appearance around 6 pm. He gathered some pretty interesting and helpful information too, and by the looks of it, if Mrs. O'Neil was an angry spirit like Sam had presumed, this hunt would be done in a day, two at the most.
The friends were hesitant at telling their story at first, but after Sam worked his kind hearted, caring FBI agent magic tricks, they were pretty quick to tell him all about the diseased teacher.
Apparently Mrs. O'Neil was having an affair with the school's principle, despite her own marriage and the school board's strict rule about absolutely no sexual relationships between anyone in the school.
The kids Rosalie, Ben, Cody, and Nikki had spotted the two staff making out one day outside the school, which as you would assume was pretty surprising at the least.
They didn't know what they should do at that point, but they were determined that they had to do something, so they all agreed to tell the official school board about the incident.
Just two weeks later, Mrs. O'Neil and the principle were both fired despite their commitment to the school. And to make the best of it, Mr. O'Neil had found out about the affair, later applying for a divorce to the former teacher.
Sam could easily guess that Mrs. O'Neil was devastated to say the least, and he found out that she had swerved her car into incoming traffic purposely after getting pretty drunk one night.
Sam assumed that Mrs. O'Neil had come back to punish the teens for ratting to the school board about her love affair with the principle, which is probably why the friends had seen her pretty angry when the teacher's spirit had appeared.
After doing some more research, Sam had found out she was buried at the White Hill Cemetery, a little over a twenty minute drive from the motel Sam was currently staying in.
He grabbed his duffel bag stuffed a gas can, a bottle of salt, and a lighter, and headed out the door, slinging the back in the bag of his dreadful van.
Before heading to the cemetery, he checked his phone once again, just in case.
No missed calls.
Sam sighed. Dean was obviously fine, why should he bother calling him? He was probably swimming in another bottle of whiskey like he had any other night, Sam thought.
If something was wrong, he would have called. Sam was sure of it.
He turned the ignition, and headed out of the motel's parking lot, despite the horrible nagging feeling that something was terribly, terribly, wrong.
---
An hour had past, and Dean was still retching over the toilet. His throat burned, his head throbbed, his legs were weak, Dean wasn't holding it together as much as he'd hoped.
This time around in the bathroom was much more violent and painful than his last puking sessions.
He spit out more blood, and fell back onto the cold, tiled floor of the bathroom.
Dean clamped his eyes shut and took deep breaths.
In, and out. In, and out.
He went to stand out to the sink, to rinse out his mouth, but unfortunately the change of position caused his nausea to reappear harshly. He barely made it to the toilet before he hacked up another wave of blood.
So Dean lid back down onto the cold tiled bathroom floor, and pulls his knees up to his chest, once again taking deep breaths in attempt to settle himself, not daring to try to get up again.
While in his fetus position on the cold floor, Dean ponders whether he should call Sam about this miserable sickness, but he came to the conclusion that he would call him if things got out of hand.
Sure, Dean was pretty miserable himself, but surely he could handle a little stomach bug, hell, he's handled much worse.
So Dean lid there on the floor, losing track of time, panting in a cold sweat and squeezing his eyes shut from the aches all over his body, and he fell into an uncomfortable nightmare filled sleep.
---
Dean's frightening dreams were about the no other Mark Of Cain. He saw himself murdering innocent people, women and children, cutting of their limbs, slitting their throats, watching them scream in pain and fear.
He saw himself stabbing and killing his friends and everyone he cared for, Bobby, his dad, his mom, Lisa, Ben, Cas, Sam, and the list continued.
He saw Sam, telling him they're no longer brothers again, and telling him to go to hell, then Sam killed him.
He had the same old dreams of hell, as Alistair sliced and diced at him in ways not even Sam could imagine.
So as you could imagine, Dean didn't wake up rather calmly.
Dean woke up with a loud gasp, and his breathing was extremely rapid. His head jolted, colliding with the bottom of the sink in a painful clunk sound.
He let out a loud grunt and attempted to even out his breathing. His body was sweating enormously, soaking him from head to toe, and to make the best of it, now there was an inch and a half gash on the top of his head, causing a trail of blood to trickle down the side of his pale face.
Dean dragged himself up and above the sink, fortunately not causing any horrible nausea to rise once again. Dean turned on the tap and rinsed out his mouth a few times, then splashing water upon his sweating face.
He examined the bleeding gash on his forehead, and concluded that it wasn't deep enough to require stitches, and that a couple butterfly cuts would do the trick, even though there was already a massive multicolored bruise forming around the wound.
Dean considered fixing up the cut right then, but then he remembered the med kit was in Sam's room, and that was just so far for Dean in his weakened state, so he decided to leave it until Sam returned. It wasn't too serious anyways, it could wait.
So instead, Dean attempted to make his way to his room. He needed a change of clothes; his sweat soaked ones were pretty uncomfortable as it is.
The nausea had somewhat subsided, but Dean was finding it extremely difficult to even stand up right. As he made his way to his room, his feet staggered and his arms hanged by his sides, unable to be lifted, like he was drunk.
When Dean made it to his bedroom, he had no choice but to sit down on his bed. He was sure he was ready to pass out, despite his attempts to stay awake and in control. His breathing had quickened and his heart thumped and thumped heavily, and his eyes were closing and opening at a slow pace.
I'll just change my clothes and then I'll lie down. Dean told himself, even though he dreaded going back to sleep and witnessing those terrible nightmares all over again.
After a couple attempts, Dean managed to stand up without falling back down, and he trotted over towards his dresser.
He removed his shirt slowly, not wanting to weaken his body further, and threw it on the floor.
No time to be neat. Dean thought to himself, he could feel unconsciousness threatening to pull him under with extreme force.
He opened up one of the drawers and examined the small collection of T-shirts he had, and that's when it happened.
The pain, it took over Dean's body furiously and boiled his insides. His head was about to explode and his heart was beating like it was ready to burst.
Dean screamed out in pain and his legs buckled, causing him to fall to the floor in agony.
He grasped at his head, pulled at his hair in any attempt to relieve the pain running through his body.
His muscles screamed, his limbs were weak, and Dean's right forearm burned the most.
The Mark screamed at Dean causing him to scream out in pain once again. It was glowing red, along with the veins around it.
Dean punched the floor, over and over, but the pain wouldn't go away. Every inch of his body was on fire, and he couldn't control it.
His heart continued to race and the sweat drenched Dean's body, running down his bare chest.
Dean had no idea what was happening. The pain came on so suddenly.
Dean's body jolted in agony and Dean screamed once more. His knuckles grasped the edge of the dresser, making them white, and the pain would not subside.
He reached for his pocket, where his phone was located, and sent a little prayer when his shaking hands had found it.
He speed dialed Sam's number, eyeing the red glowing mark on his arm.
Please pick up, please pick up.
"Yeah." Sam's voice sent a wave of relief through Dean's agonized body.
"Sam, come back to the bunker, s-somethings wrong, the p-pain Sam, it won't go away, n-need your help Sam.." Dean squeezed his eyes shut and punched the floor once again.
"Dean? The pain? Dean, what's going on?" Sam's tone was on full blown worry now.
"J-just come back... need your help Sammy, make it stop," unconsciousness gloomed over Dean, finally taking him over, crashing his body to the floor in a shaking, pale, sweating heap.
"Dean? DEAN! Are you with me? I need you to talk to me man, I'm on my way." The call ended, and Dean lay unconscious on the floor, phone still in hand.
---
Sam waited in his van for a while until he was sure nobody was going to be coming in and out of the cemetery for the night.
He grabbed his stuff from the back and headed in search for Mrs. O'Neil's grave.
After about 10 minutes worth of reading random headstones, Sam was sure he found the right one.
Eliza O'Neil: A loving wife and friend, may she always be remembered.
Sam grabbed his shovel and started to dig, ignoring the fact that the job would be much less effort and easier if Dean were here to help him.
An hour had passed, and Sam finally reached the casket.
The smell of the corpse didn't bother Sam much anymore, you get used to it after smelling it so many times.
He poured gasoline and salt over the teacher's body, then threw the lighter into the pit, watching as it lit up in flames.
After he was sure that the corpse couldn't burn any more and it was long enough, Sam extinguished the flames, and refilled the hole with the dirt.
Finally, the work was done and Sam headed back towards his dreadful van, grateful that the hunt went well and he could head back to the bunker.
He wasn't sure what would happen when he got back, didn't know what he would expect of Dean and him, but he was ready to go home, ready to face it.
That's when he got the call. He threw his duffel and shovel into the back and shut the door as his phone rang and vibrated in his pocket.
Incoming call: Dean.
Sam smiled, at least he cared enough to call him, he thought.
"Yeah." Sam thought Dean was probably just checking in to see when he would be coming home or how the hunt went.
"Sam, come back to the bunker, s-somethings wrong, the p-pain Sam, it won't go away, n-need your help Sam.." Sam's heart stopped. His breathing sped up. What was Dean talking about? He was fine when he left, what the hell is going on?
"Dean? The pain? Dean, what's going on?" Sam jumped in the car with his keys in his other hand, and inserted them into the ignition, shaking, and worried about his big brother.
"J-just come back... need your help Sammy, make it stop." Sam's heart was racing as he heard a thump on the other end of the call.
"Dean? DEAN! Are you with me? I need you to talk to me man, I'm on my way."
No answer. Sam hung up the phone and sped out of the cemetery, breaking every possible speed limit, desperate to reach his hurting brother.
He didn't care that he left his clothes back at the motel, or didn't care if anyone looked at him funny for driving such a vehicle.
Sam needed to get to Dean, and fast.
---
There you go folks! Chapter 3! Again, incredibly sorry for the wait.
I can't guarantee when chapter 4 will be out, but when ever I can, I'll start to write it.
Thanks a bunch for reading and I would love for you to review.
I will be posting this story on fanfiction.net, just because I love that website and generally I am on there more than this website.
Thanks a bunch, and stay happy;)
----------------------------------------------