Fic: Wait For The Ricochet 2/7
:: :: ::
When the hands read 7:30 and your night begins to sink in the short but faster fall, in the anxious but calm retort to mirror that frames your face barring the finest swell, when the day begins to break like the tears that run across your cheek, stand straight and imagine you then in the things and the way they could have been, when the thoughts they race across your chin in the neverend.
:: :: ::
The big classic car rumbled to a halt, the V8 engine quieting with one last growl until the car was silent at last, one more shadow buried in the darkness beneath the trees that crowded onto the parking lot, roots stretching under the asphalt as if trying to reclaim the land. For a long moment, nothing moved inside or out, the two men cocooned behind the dust-streaked glass nothing but statues, carved from granite and marble by too many years of fighting, too many miles of running. The fading strains of music drifted out into the forest, the last echoes of a mournful guitar dying in the thin tendrils of early evening mist that twisted through the paper-thin copper hanging for dear life to spider-leg branches.
Finally, the driver’s door groaned open, the tall man unfolding himself from the seat with a yawn that did nothing to stop his eyes scanning the trees around him, searching the long wall stretching back towards the road behind, every door closed, every window darkly reflecting his own image back at him. Only when he’d searched a complete three-sixty, did he bend to peer back through the still open door, quirking an eyebrow at the figure huddled in the passenger seat.
“You comin’?”
With a sigh, the other man shoved open the door, a creaking echo of the first rattling in the clearing as he clambered out of the seat, dwarfing the first man even standing in a weary slouch with his elbows propped on the roof of the car, his head in his hands as he sniffed loudly.
“Dude! I taught you better manners than that!”
Sam Winchester squinted at his brother from the corner of one eye.
“No, you didn’t.”
His voice was muffled, thick with the threat of another sniff, and he swiped irritably at his nose and streaming eyes.
“Yeah, well, I should have. C’mon. Let’s get inside, before you sneeze all over me again.”
The older man muttered the last; an irritated grumble as he strode to the trunk, hauled it open and grabbed their bags. As Sam watched, he carried all three duffels in, the silent care screaming louder than any spoken confession of love could ever manage, and he smiled slightly, sniffled again and followed his brother to the last door at the end of the long building, standing just slightly open so that a thin fan of dingy, golden light splashed over the low step and onto the cracked, worn pavement.
He stepped up, paused for a second on the threshold between the light and the shadow, between the warm and the chill, a feeling like gelid fingers trailing across his shoulder blades, down his spine as the hairs on his neck and arms shivered upright. Twisting so quickly his foot, balanced on the edge of the step slipped off, sending him stumbling back out of the room, his hands fumbling at the rickety door but only managing to slam it closed; and the instant the light from inside the room was shut off, he heard eyes staring at him, felt the wailing howl of something, tasted its hate and it drove him to his knees, his long arms wrapped around his chest so tightly his shoulders cracked, muscles jumping as he shivered, jaw locked around the cry that was stuttering, trapped in his throat.
As quickly as it started, it was gone, molten gold spilling out over his back and driving the jumbled sensations away.
“Sam! Hey, hey, Sammy, what is it? Are you hurt? Was something there? Was it a vision?”
He wanted to laugh. Only in their twisted lives would that panicked stream of questions not sound insane. Instead he gasped for air, suddenly realising as he finally let loose the cry caught behind his tongue that he hadn’t been breathing, and it came out as a strangled whisper.
“Dean!”
“I’m here. I’m right here, Sammy. You okay? Huh? Answer me, Sam!”
“’M ‘kay.”
“Sure you are. ‘Cause practically passing out in the middle of the damn parking lot is normal.”
“For God’s sake Dean, I said I’m fine!”
Dean fell back as Sam’s hands shoved at his chest, his precarious crouch by his brother’s side overbalancing until he thumped to his ass on the ground, blinking up at the younger man.
“What the hell, Sam?”
Hazel eyes glared at him, a sneer twisting the familiar face into a mask of disgust that clawed at him.
“Just leave me alone for five minutes! That’s all! Just give me some freakin’ space, quit followin’ me around everywhere I go, asking if I’m okay all the damn time, because I. Am. Fine.”
“No, you’re not.” He tried to pretend his voice didn’t break a little, tried not to feel his hands trembling as he rocked himself back to his knees and reached out for his brother again, pushing away the memory that surged up in him from the pit of his stomach, watching Sam sling a bulging duffle over his shoulder and walk away, his outstretched hand ignored, his offer of help, of care drowned in the ringing echo of ‘If you walk away, don’t come back’ and the sudden agoraphobia that dropped him to his knees as the world grew impossibly huge with each beat of his heart, each step his baby brother took away from him.
“I’m not what, Dean? We goin’ inside or what?”
Dean pulled back, his hands never quite reaching Sam’s shoulder as the younger man peered at him quizzically, a tiny smile lifting one corner of his mouth, lighting his eyes.
“You okay, man?”
“I...uh, yeah.”
“You sure?”
Sam frowned, leaning towards him.
“’Cause you look kinda spooked, Dean.”
“Hey, I don’t get ‘spooked’!”
The protest sprang from his lips, but he barely heard it, still staring at his brother, still seeing that sneer layering disgust over his face, still hearing the loathing in his voice.
“Whatever, dude. Let’s jus-”
Sam broke off to sneeze hugely, hands flying up to cover his face as he sneezed again, a look of utter misery and revulsion smoothing the frown into something pitiful. He sighed, scrambling to his feet.
“Let’s just get inside.”
Dean watched him shuffle away towards the room, towards the spill of light flooding over the step from the door he’d abandoned in his rush to get to his brother when he’d seen Sam hunched on the ground, shuddering, choking on something he couldn’t see, couldn’t fight. He shivered, remembering the way fear had turned to anger and hurt as his brother had lashed out at him, shifting back to near-panic as he’d searched those dark eyes for black and found only empty hatred.
“Dean? You comin’?”
His head snapped up, locking onto Sam’s gaze before he could stop it but all he saw was worry, just starting to edge around the wry amusment and weariness, and deeper, hidden to anyone else; the love and respect that he’d treasured for so long, that he’d missed so wrenchingly for the years they’d spent apart.
“Yeah.”
He pushed himself up, made himself smile at his brother and nodded his head at the open door.
“Go on; get inside before you infect the whole freakin’ state.”
Sam chuckled, and Dean watched him as he turned and walked into the room, letting one last shiver sweep up his spine, leave me alone, and don’t come back swirling through the blood that suddenly pounded in his head before he shook himself, and followed silently.
He never saw the eyes in the dark behind him; never saw the smile that twitched across bloody teeth in the cold of the shadows.
:: :: ::
Intoxicated eyes, no longer live that life.
You should have learned by now,
I’ll burn this whole world down.
I need some peace of mind,
no fear of what’s behind.
You think you’ve won this fight,
you've only lost your mind.
:: :: ::
Sunlight streamed through the narrow gap in the curtains, through the spots where the thin material had worn away to nothing, soaked with the grease of thousands of hands. It was nothing new, the same thing he’d seen a million times, laser-beams bright in the dust choked air; but somehow, it seemed different as he lay in bed, staring through them to the ceiling; as if, on this morning, they were prison bars, intangible but locking him down with iron strength. His eyes flickered to the side again, the way they had all night as he’d laid there, sleepless in the deafening words raging in his skull, his brother’s voice and his father’s mingling, never quite harmonising with his desperate explanations. It’s the cold, that’s all, it’s just the cold making him freak out. His eyes had never quite made it far enough to actually see the other bed, the figure he knew was hunched there, buried in the blankets his brother had stolen from his own bed, snoring thickly with an occasional glottal snort that made him start every time he heard it.
He’d given up wrinkling his nose in disgust at it after a couple of hours, just watched the sodium light slowly fade into the dawn, trying to forget and feeling empty eyes stare at him from the shadows where nothing stood.
Finally, he gave up on sleep, rolled silently out of bed and padded to the bathroom. The shower clattered and shrieked, and he winced, sticking his head round the door to apologise to Sam; then he smiled and chuckled at the sight of the tangled mound of blankets, only one foot dangling inelegantly over the edge of the bed and a shock of dark hair visible beneath them. Ducking back into the bathroom, he smirked, the hot water needling his skin, steam fogging the mirror and seeping into his lungs with every breath. Slowly, the ritual of normal life soothed him, eased the fear that had shimmered through him all night. His lather-slick hands skimmed over scars, most old, some new, all ignored until sensitive fingers felt the ridge of hard tissue along his left side, traced it up to his shoulder and down his bicep, where it curled in a subtle coma of pale skin.
You fight, and you fight for this family, but the truth is... Dad, please... Sam, something’s wrong... Don’t be scared Dean. You have to promise me...
“No!”
His fist slammed against the tiles, a wet slap of sound punctuating his growl of denial. He sucked in a steam-heavy breath, coughing as his throat tried to close against the hot water it carried into him, and he forced it out on a whisper, his hand clenching tighter, blood welling to the crescents his nails dug into his palm as he thumped the wall again, no force behind the blow.
“No. You’re wrong. You have to be.”
“Dean?”
The distant call startled him, and he suddenly realised he was slumped in the corner of the shower, water pounding over his head, scalding his face as it poured over his skin but he still shivered in the depths of a chill that nothing could ease. He swallowed the water that had found its way into his mouth, fumbling at the taps until the shower cut off to a thin dribble.
“Y...yeah, Sammy. I’m coming.”
“You better leave me some hot water, man!”
“Yeah.”
Without the water, the steam quickly dissipated as he pulled on clean boxers, and a pale, shadowed face appeared from the fog, matching every movement as he spun towards it. He let out a shuddering sigh, leaning on the sink below the mirror so heavily that it groaned under his weight, shifting away from the wall slightly before he forced himself to stand upright, to face his reflection, his other self watching him through red, shadowed eyes that were too heavy with memory and hurt to see clearly. He watched back, until they were empty, hidden behind the two-sided mask, comedia turned out to the world, tragedia walling him in inside.
Turning away, he snagged a towel from the rail, slung it around his hips and shouldered his way though the door, casting a quick glance around the room. Sam sat at the laptop, his thin t-shirt clinging to a dark line of sweat down his spine, staring motionless at the local newspaper site on the screen, fingers resting idle on the keys. Dean hesitated a moment, seeing that sneer twist his brother’s mouth in the dark, feeling as if he was teetering on the brink of the void that had drowned him as he’d watched his baby brother walk away, a vague tremor shivering his heart, You’re losing him ringing in his mind, Losing him, and you’ll have to keep that promise, that one you never should have made.
It wasn’t his voice he heard in his head, wasn’t his brother’s or his father’s, a lurching sensation of recognition sickening as he knew he remembered it, the soft, feminine tone, twisted into something to fear, something to hate. ... lucky day, kid...
He gasped quietly, the cold, musty air snapping him out of the memory he couldn’t place, and he focused his gaze back on his brother, forcing it away.
“Sam? Shower’s free.”
The younger man started a little, sniffing as he turned to Dean, a slight crease crinkling his brow. He opened his mouth, and the older man could almost see the questions piling up but he snapped his teeth shut again, shaking his head and muttering a quick, “Thanks,” pushing himself to his feet with a weary sigh and shuffling into the bathroom.
Clicking it shut behind him, he kept his back turned to the mirror as he shivered in the damp air, the labouring fan only sucking the heat from the air and leaving behind the humidity as a clammy, heavy presence, crowding the small room. Slowly, every joint aching, he slipped his t-shirt over his head and stepped out of his pants, his jaw cracking in a yawn that made his ears pop painfully.
“Dammit,” he whispered, leaning one shoulder against the wobbly towel rail as his head span for a moment.
“Sammy? I’m goin’ for coffee. Back in ten.”
His brother’s voice drifted through the door, too loud to be far from the layered wood.
“’Kay.”
Sam’s curt answer was shortened further by a thunderous sneeze, and through the ringing in his ears he heard a quiet snicker from the other side of the door, quickly fading into the sudden rush of sound as his brother opened the outside door, banging it shut with a heavy thud that shivered through the thin floorboards. The younger man scowled, stepped into the shower, his feet slipping slightly on the still wet enamel. He sighed, a broad smile smoothing his brow as hot water washed down, loosening the bands that seemed to be clamped tight around his chest, shrivelling the lump clogging his throat.
Letting his eyes close, he tipped his head back, knowing that when he came out of the bathroom there would be a steaming coffee waiting for him, a new bottle of medicine mutely dropped beside it. Blindly reaching out, he fumbled with the soap, a thin layer of slightly grey suds sticky on the misshapen bar, washing away as he scrubbed it over his hands, the thick lather smelling of spices and musk and home. He hissed suddenly as he ran a soaped hand over his knees and felt the sting of raw skin, protesting the chemicals.
“Huh.”
He squinted down, searching his memory for a fall that could account for the scratches, and saw a flash of green eyes blinking up at him, dark with hurt and fear and ruthlessly subdued anger and an image that shook him completely, driving him back into the wall, never knowing he mimicked his brother almost perfectly, .shuddering as he struggled to understand it, echoing spaces where nothing stood, blood dripping from a smile in the dark...
:: :: ::
This is getting old, well I can’t break these chains that I hold.
My body’s growing cold, there’s nothing left of this mind or my soul.
Addiction needs a pacifier, the buzz of this poison is taking me higher
And this will fall away.
This will fall away.
You’re getting closer, to pushing me off of life’s little ledge,
‘Cause I’m a loser, and sooner or later you know I’ll be dead,
You’re getting closer, you’re holding the rope I’m taking the fall.
:: :: ::
He blinked, dry soap crusting on his lashes and flaking away from his skin as he started, finding himself standing in the middle of the room. He swallowed, broken glass rasping down his throat, twisting around, seeing the faint footprints drying on the floor, his footprints, leading from the shower to the smashed mirror, through the bloody shards to where he stood. Lifting his hands, he stared at the cuts littering his fists, feeling the deep scratches on his feet.
“What the hell?”
His jaw trembled as much as his hands, made his murmur a stumbling, guttural cry as panic started to wash adrenaline through him; but it left him drained, shaky, the way he felt when he’d gone too long on nothing but the natural high. His mouth dried, his vision distorting as his eyes focused intently on the space in front of him and let the periphery fade, and his hearing sharpened, his heart thunder through his veins, the juddering breath hitching on the other side of the door suddenly achingly loud, horribly familiar; Dad, please...Check on him, go check on him... no Sam, don’t you do it...
“Dean?”
Silence. A frozen, frightened presence on the other side of the door, not moving, not even breathing, terrifying uncertainty radiating through the wood.
“Dean!”
His voice was more insistent, somehow steadier, but his knees buckled as his brother answered in a hesitant, stuttering whisper.
“S-Sammy?”
He shook his head numbly in shock, rearing away from the naked pain in the sound of his own name; the motion sending him staggering into the wall beside the door and the collision broke the dam, let the adrenaline flood out of him on a shuddering gasp. His shoulder scraped on the tiles as he slid down to his knees, one trembling, fisted hand pressed against the floor, the other reaching up to fumble at the lock until it clicked over, suddenly desperate to see his brother, to tend to the mortal wound that had to be the cause of that pain.
The door swung open, the room beyond lost in shadows cast through the still drawn blinds but the light was wrong, the irregular square it painted on the floor too close to the window, spilling over the coffee puddled around a crushed Styrofoam mass on the table. He barely saw it, didn’t register the loss it signified in his conscious mind; just felt his heart turn brittle and hard in his chest as he took in the figure huddled against the wall on the far side of the door, one bruised hand curled around his ribs, the other splayed across the rough plaster, fingers digging into the cracks that radiated from the new dent that was flecked with dark crimson; as if the wall would collapse without that grip, as if he would fall alongside the rubble.
He thought he couldn’t hurt anymore, but his heart shattered, ripped through his guts as the shards of it plummeted when his brother lifted his head and stared at him through burning eyes, something broken deep inside the bloodshot, pale hazel, bleeding out through the crushed wreckage in the trembling gaze.
“Sammy?”
The hope in the whisper was terrible to hear, disbelief warring with need, anger clashing against fear, but the younger man nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement that was all he could manage as his brother sighed out a cracked, sobbing laugh, breath catching hard at the end as they stared at each other for a long, breathless age; searching for trust, finding love instead.
“Shit.”
Dean finally breathed it, twisting round to slump against the wall, propping his wrists against his knees, letting his hands dangle limply. He dropped his head, chin resting on his chest, eyes staring blindly at the carpet between his legs, unable to let himself look at his brother but every inch of his perception fixed to the other man, mirroring his position on the far side of the door,. They sat in silence for a moment, words one couldn’t remember, one wanted to forget still choking the air between them.
“Dean, what happened?”
He didn’t answer, had to force himself to take a breath as he drowned in the sound of you’re nothing without me, without Dad to tell you what to do crashing into his heart.
“Dean?”
“Don’t, Sammy please. Just...just give me a minute.”
A minute to listen to you next to me, to feel you there, to forget what you said. But a minute isn’t enough. I don’t think eternity would be enough.
Slowly, the shaking he’d locked inside eased, showed itself in his hands as he flexed the knuckles he’d buried in the wall to try and drown out the cruel sound, bruises dark under the bright red scald left by the coffee as the cup had crumpled under his fingers. Scratches pulled open, fresh blood beading along them and he grunted under his breath. He couldn’t stop the wary tension that sprang across his shoulders, down his spine as his brother pushed away from the wall and disappeared into the bathroom, forced himself to relax as Sam crouched in the doorway again, his back to the jamb by Dean’s side, antiseptic cream in his hand.
A weary smile fluttered across his lips as the younger man held out his free hand, palm open and up, waiting silently until Dean lifted his hand and rested it in the long fingers that curled, gently caging his as Sam carefully rubbed the cream into the battered knuckles.
His sigh was almost a moan as he tipped his head back, his eyes fluttering closed, his hair flattening out over the dented plaster.
“You were still in the bathroom when I got back. But when I told you I got you coffee, you just flipped. Freaked out completely.”
“Did I...?”
He didn’t need to ask what the rest of that question was, Did I hurt you?
“No.”
He shook his head, rolling it along the wall in emphasis, trying to convince himself more than his brother.
“No. You just... you just said things.”
'You’re just a pathetic little soldier; only without your general to give you orders, you’re lost, blindly following the path he set you on. Like a wind-up toy, set him marching to the drums and watch him walk straight over the edge of the table...’
The dull thud of his head thumping against the wall made his brother wince, snatch a breath and open his mouth but he spoke before Sam could, the blunt metronome of his skull gently hitting plaster a quiet, throbbing counterpoint that broke the cadence of the memory, broke him away from the tide that threatened to drag him down, drag him back.
“Like at Roosevelt. Like Dad, in the cabin when he...when he was possessed.”
...they don’t need you...John’s favourite...not pathetic, like you...don’t need you.
“Dean...”
“It was like you couldn’t stop.”
‘You’re pathetic, no future, no life outside hunting, and you know it, you know there’s no-one out there who even knows your name.’
That’s not true.’
‘Oh that’s right, I forgot, all those people you save. But they don’t really know you, don’t want to know you, do they Dean? They just want you to get the hell out of their lives, their normal, ordinary lives, just like the one I had before you dragged me away from it, dragged me down with you because you were all alone in the big, bad world and you couldn’t take it.’
“Like you didn’t want to.”
Heat slicked over his cheek, along his jaw until it ran down to pool in the hollow of his throat, tiny ripples dancing as he swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t remember it, do you?”
He felt Sam shake his head, rather than seeing it, and he wondered if it mattered that the younger man didn’t know what he was apologising for.
“What’s happening, Dean?”
His eyes opened slowly, searching the contours of the ceiling for the answers he didn’t have, anything but the ones he couldn’t give.
Look out for Sammy, and if you can’t save him...
Fear bloomed in him, carbonised in its own heat as suddenly as it grew until it was a cold, hard stone glittering in the middle of his heart.
“I don’t know, Sammy. But I’ll figure it out.”
He could see fear lingering in his brother’s curved, hunched posture; the fight-or-flight instinct useless against the threat he couldn’t understand, leaving just the need to protect, to survive.
His hand turned in Sam’s, the touch unbroken, never forgotten as it slid up to grip his brother’s wrist. The younger man almost flinched, guilt a nearly visible cloud around him but Dean tightened his fingers, his own stomach churning at the bloody streaks on the pale skin.
He winced, remembering the sound of shattering glass that had stopped his heart as he walked in through the door, the low snarl of anger and pain that had made his hand clench into a fist, heedless of the flimsy cup that didn’t stand a chance against his grip. Gently turning his brother’s hand over, he prised open the long fingers, breathing a small sigh of relief as he saw unmarked skin over the vulnerable tendons and ligaments. He reached out to Sam’s other hand, grabbed the tube of antiseptic and began to work it into the neat slices, neither of them ever looking up from his work, feeling the slow push and pull under his touch as his brother balanced against his motion.
“We’ll figure it out, Sammy, and when we find whatever the hell it is that’s doin’ this, I’ll kill it. Swear to god. I’ll kill all of them.”
I swear, I’ll save you. I won’t let it happen.
I promise.
:: :: ::
To find yourself just look inside the wreckage of your past,
To lose it all you have to do is lie.
Does it feel like we've never been alive inside?
Does it seem like it's only just begun?
:: :: ::
“Anything?”
He didn’t really need to ask. The glass-rattling thump of the car door told him all he needed to know about how his brother’s day had gone. But he glanced up anyway as he sniffed a little, feeling the pea-souper drifting in his head slowly coalesce into towering clouds. He kept his muffled tone easily hopeful, knowing Dean needed to hear the trust in it now no matter that it was a lie. Sam wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to trust himself again.
The older man shrugged, a heavy, resigned jerk of his shoulders as he blew a huff of air through pursed lips, teeth gritted together behind them.
“Nothing I wanted to hear. You?”
The keys grated as he tossed them onto the cheap metal table, sending them skittering across the surface. Sam bit at his lip, found he couldn’t take his eyes away from them as his fingers rattled a quick tattoo on the brushed aluminium shell of his laptop, he didn’t hear it, didn’t hear the soft hum of the fans whirring gently, idly inside the machine; all he heard was the heavy silence from the other side of the bathroom door, the sound of grief trapped in a breath held too long and the fractured plea; Don’t, Sammy, please. Just...just give me a minute that was so unspeakably wrong coming from his brother, from the man who broke through everything he couldn’t lock away behind the walls that had been smashed so easily, left in blood-soaked rubble in his eyes.
“Sammy?”
The younger man squeezed his eyes shut for a second, hard enough to make stars explode across the back of his eyelids as his balance wavered slightly, thrown by the cold and the sudden dark. He couldn’t ignore the hesitation in his brother’s voice when he didn’t answer, the way Dean’s broad shoulders pulled back and down as his weight shifted forward, chin tucked into his chest, dropping into a fighting stance without even realising it. Sam darted a glance at him, saw the moment his brother noticed what he’d done; the slight hitch in his breath, the flicker of guilt and disgust that darkened his face.
He shook his head mutely, not trusting himself to speak.
What did I say to him last night, that he still can’t look me in the eye?
“We’ll find it, Sammy. I promised, and you know I never break a promise.”
Sam dared to raise an eyebrow, let a small grin toy with the corners of his lips.
“That doesn’t count.”
He kept silent, shrugging one shoulder slightly, fighting to stop the grin spreading.
“It doesn’t! That chick knew I wasn’t a freakin’ talent scout!”
“Sure, Dean. Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night.”
Dean flinched, the colour draining from his face before he turned away, bowing his head. Sam felt something twist in his stomach, swallowed hard on the lump that clawed up his throat as he watched his brother’s shoulders hitch once. He closed his eyes, barely noticed his nails gouging crescents into his palms as his fists trembled, and in the dark he heard the rigidly slow breathing, too quiet, controlled with an effort that left his knees feeling weak with empathy; and he knew his brother was fighting the memories his careless joke had stirred, finally began to piece together the words that still rang too loudly between them.
“Dean, I’m - ”
“Don’t, Sammy, don’t you dare apologise!”
The harsh whisper snapped in the quiet, the desperate edge of fear beneath it too strong, forcing him back away from the glare that never quite met his eyes, his mouth suddenly arid.
“Dean, what’s wrong?”
His brother shivered slightly, a barely visible blur of motion that had him stepping forward again, reaching out one hand to brush his fingers over Dean’s shoulder. The older man started at the contact, muscles jumping under the leather of his coat, then he huffed out a long breath, almost leaning into the touch for a fraction of a second, the barest pressure against his hand that shook Sam to the core even as it steadied him.
“We gotta figure this out, Sammy.”
He pulled away, dug in the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a crumpled roll of paper, tossing it onto the table as if it burned. Sam watched it from where he stood, not at all certain he wanted to open it but Dean spared him the task.
“’Cause I found one thing, that doesn’t make any kind of sense at all. Three victims. Two dead, one still critical, seems like all of them had to know whoever attacked them. And here’s the kicker: Alice Lewitt, the victim who survived? Said her husband had been acting weird, really vicious arguments that he didn’t remember afterwards. Cops’ve got him in custody, but he’s claiming he didn’t do it and he seems pretty convinced. Like he really doesn’t remember it.”
Dean watched his brother pale, reach out a shaky hand to the wall and lean against it.
“It doesn’t fit any M.O. I can think of, except a demon and there’s no sign of storms, crop failures or freakin’ anything.”
“So some other sort of possession? A spirit maybe? There’s always been reports of ghosts possessing people.”
“Yeah, freakin’ nut jobs sayin’ Great Aunt Nora told them to go out and murder a half dozen other people.”
“Great Aunt Nora?”
“Whatever. Spirits don’t possess people, and the EMF didn’t make a damn noise this morning.”
He sighed wearily; leant against the wall himself and stared at the window, words he didn’t know how to say churning through his head. A spirit wouldn’t know how to get under my skin and tear me apart like you did. I promised we’d find it, but I’m scared, Sammy, ‘cause I promised Dad things I never should have as well and I don’t know how to keep both this time. The voice in his head was quiet, a familiar, painful whisper, confessing all the things he could never speak aloud. He could feel his brother watching him anxiously, couldn’t bring himself to look back.
God help me, I don’t think I can keep them both.
The room suddenly seemed tiny, crushing him with too many memories; old and new. His skin flushed, the fine hairs on his arms standing on end with a shiver of feeling like needles jabbed into him, and he pushed away from the wall in a quick motion, needing to move, to feel the air brush cool fingers over his skin.
“Come on.”
“Where to?”
Anywhere I can’t hear those words, those promises. Anywhere I can’t feel them.
Sometimes, the masks he plastered against the world were just too heavy when there was only his brother there to see them, the load easier to bear, easier to hide when there was a crowd around him making it instinctive, and he found himself craving the taste of smoke on the air; a sharp, heady tang of hops and barley and yeast cutting through it in his throat; the anonymity and the vicarious normality of other people’s lives as they gossiped and whined about the mundane, everyday problems.
“There’s a bar about a mile down the road. I could use a drink.”
Sam stared at him, confusion slowly spreading across his face then clearing as he took in the other man’s too-quick, movements, his hands curling into un-noticed fists as he snatched the room key and stuffed it into his pocket.
“You comin’ Sammy?”
He could see the tension simmering in his brother’s shoulders, see the sudden need to find a way to hide from the fear crushing in on them if only for a while, recognised it all too easily in the twitchy feeling cramping through his legs and up his spine. They were too alike sometimes, he mused as he struggled into his jacket, too many years spent living in each others pockets had made it too easy to feed from the other’s nightmares until they had to run.
A feeling like déjà vu swept over him as they stepped into the early evening, the overwhelming familiarity he had when he looked around him and recognised a scene from a vision and he paused, one foot still in the room.
“Sammy?”
The soft question startled him, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t even think through the terrifying certainty that something was going to go wrong, acid and blood metallic in the back of his mouth.
“You okay dude?”
He heard the worry shift up a gear, full-blown panic beginning to edge into his brother’s voice, and still he couldn’t make his own voice work, lost in the shadow of something he knew, without ever seeing it inside his head or out, a smile flickering through his head, blood spilling through it and onto his hands until he gagged at the slick warmth, at the stench of corruption and rage.
“Sammy, what’s wrong?”
Fingers curled around his bicep, the heat blasting from them shocking him back with a slap and he rocked away from his brother, stumbling over the small step until his shoulder fetched up against the edge of the doorframe.
“Sam!”
He was panting, suddenly realised that one hand was gripping the edge of the door, the other pressed flat against Dean’s chest, pushing hard. But his brother leant into it, gripping his shoulders, muscles straining as they stood, locked against each other. Sam stared at his fingers, splayed across Dean’s t-shirt; the material bunched around it and clean, not stained with the blood he could still feel on his skin. He caught a shuddering breath, felt the tension singing through his muscles ease with it, the older man shifting as the force between them faded.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah.”
His voice was a hushed rasp, as if speaking louder might let that stained-smile swallow him again.
“God.”
He wasn’t sure who said it, as they slid down the wall together, leaning on the building, on each other until they knelt on the ground.
“You okay?”
Sam nodded once, each breath he took steadying him more until the tremors coursing through him were gone, lost in his heartbeat as it pulsed under his skin, under his brother’s hands.
“What the hell was that, Sam?”
“Some...” he broke off, coughed a little, tried again. “Some kind of vision, I guess.”
“Shit.”
He agreed whole-heartedly with that. If he’d thought the screaming-migraine-inducing visions were bad enough, this was sickeningly worse, the impression of whatever he was sensing bearing down on him like a freight-train in a long tunnel left him helpless.
“What’d you see?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Sam...”
Dean’s voice was irritated, drawn-out threat implicit in the growl.
“Seriously! It was just...weird. Like as soon as I stepped through the door, I’d seen it before. All of this. Like I’d had a vision about it already, and forgotten it until I saw it again. I just knew something was going to happen, but I couldn’t tell what.”
He kept the smile that had coated his hands with blood to himself, just glanced furtively at his fingers where they were still curled around the wood of the door. They were clean, pale in the slowly growing shadows of the trees. He shivered.
“C’mon.”
Dean pushed himself to his feet with a muted groan, eyes dark with something Sam couldn’t understand as they darted between the younger man and the door. He watched his brother suck in a breath, drop his shoulders as he reached out a hand to push the thin wood open again, and he suddenly knew what those shadows were. Pain. Betrayal. Fear. Twice, he’d ripped his brother apart, no matter that he couldn’t remember it, twice something had happened, something they didn’t understand, didn’t know how to fight, and he finally saw that it was tearing them both apart.
“No, I’m good.”
The older man quirked a brow at him, disbelief and hope at odds in his stare.
“Really, let’s go. I’m starving.”
He wasn’t hungry at all, the cold clogging his chest joining forces with the churning in his stomach leftover from the strange premonition to make the thought of food enough to weaken his knees and he paused before he reached up to the hand Dean held down to him.
“You sure, Sammy?”
Sam nodded, slapping his hand into his brother’s and letting the older man pull him to his feet.
“Great.”
The thousand-watt grin was infectious, soothing the storm brewing in the clouds fogging his mind, the ache in his joints, and they turned, the door clicking softly closed behind them on bitter words and hurt as their feet hit the asphalt in perfect time.
Under the trees, bright eyes watched them warily, russet fur blending with the stained shadows as the sun set, still for a moment before the dog-fox bowed his head again, rough tongue digging at the dark flakes pooled in the cracked ground; perfect circles painted in crimson, dried in the long, cool day to black, the edge of one cut sharp in a slow arc, spreading thin tendrils along the tread of a shoe-print left behind in shadows that would never lift.
:: :: ::
Sideways falling, more will be revealed, my friend.
Oh and don’t forget me, I can’t hide it, there’s a match now let me light it.
I’m the bloodstain on your shirtsleeve.
Coming down and more are coming to believe, now we know it all for sure.
Make the hair stand up on your arm, teach you how to dance inside the funny farm.
Not alone, I’ll be there, tell me when you want to go.
:: :: ::
It should have been perfect.
The beer was cold, the pool table busy with a crowd who seemed only too amicable to the hustle as long as he won with a grin and a wink, his brother perched on a stool at the bar, shuffling through papers and smiling easily back at him.
It should have been perfect.
It wasn’t. Everything was...off, a sharp edge to the world that turned the beer sour in his gut, made the cheerfully resigned shrugs of the other players seem sly, conspiratorial, and Sam’s smiles were forced, a brittle contrast to the fear buried too shallow in his eyes. Dean sighed, letting his gaze wander across the bar. It was small, smoke wreathing between the patrons, barely stirred by the fans that spun lazily overhead. One creaked monotonously, a high-pitched screee every few seconds that cut through his head like a band saw. In the corner, an ancient, silently patient jukebox glowed fitfully, scattering warm neon across the backs of the slouched drinkers in front of it. Finally, fake ivory clacked together, the cue ball striking the eight with a sharp snap, echoed by the dull thud as it dropped into the pocket. His smile felt as false as the ivory as he plucked his winnings from the side cushion.
“Best of three? Winner takes all?”
“I just did.”
He eyed the kid, barely out of his teens and clutching the cue as if it were plated with gold. From the guilty look on his face, Dean had the idea that the last thing he could afford to do was lose most of a paycheck to a stranger, so he sighed again, rolling his eyes a little as he cast a glance at his brother.
Gettin’ soft, Dean.
Sam shrugged at him, a hint of something almost genuine in his smile as the older sibling nodded to the kid, tossed the money back on the cushion.
“Gonna grab a beer. Rack ‘em up.”
His low murmur set the kid springing to action behind him as Dean strolled to where Sam sat, leaning one elbow on the bar beside his brother’s half-empty glass and craning his neck to catch the bar tender’s eye.
“Kid barely looks old enough to drink.”
He raised an eyebrow at the slight sting in Sam’s words, the subtle bite of accusation.
“He knew the stakes before he played, Sammy.”
“He’s never seen a hustle before, let alone been played by one.”
“Yeah, well. Now he’s learned his lesson.”
Dean couldn’t hide the flush of guilt in his mutter, knew his brother heard it and understood what he was planning. With a soft chuckle, Sam hopped off his stool, stretched a little.
“I’m headin’ back.”
“You sure?”
He was torn, fighting the urge to follow his brother, to not let him out of his sight, struggling under the memories that threatened to overwhelm him with every move Sam made. Something screamed in the back of his head, crying out under the weight of them and he scowled at his hands, swallowing back the Wait up, I’m comin’ that sprang to his tongue.
“Yeah. Finish up. I’ll see you at the motel.”
“Okay. Sammy, be careful.”
The younger man smiled at him, almost sadly, nudging the newly pulled beer towards him and Dean took a long sip as he watched Sam snag his jacket from the back of the stool and toss a slight wave at the kid lining up the balls, relishing the brew that for the first time tonight, seemed to taste like it should.
It turned to acid and gravedirt in his mouth as his brother called behind him in a low voice;
“And it’s Sam.”
He forced himself to swallow, choking on the burn and it’s Sam, for the millionth time. It’s not Sammy, it hasn’t been Sammy since I walked out on your miserable, screwed up life...
“Hey, you okay, mister?”
No. Not really. ‘Cause I think my brother’s losing his mind, or something’s taking it from him and honestly? I don’t know which is worse.
“Yeah. Break.”
“You sure? ‘Cause maybe it ain’t none of my business, but you look kinda... well. Scared.”
“I’m fine. Break already.”
The kid peered at him a moment longer, and he buried his nose in his glass.
Yeah, definitely getting’ soft if he can read you that easy, ‘cause right now I’m bettin’ you look a bit like a deer in the freakin’ headlights. Suck it up, Winchester. There ain’t time for this.
Balls scattered across the table, two rolling to the edge of the cushion. They caught his attention through the rim of the glass, the lacework of foam clouding the scene as he watched them teeter on the brink for a long moment, poised against every law of nature that tried to drag them down. He screwed his eyes shut when one fell, the other tipping back a fraction of a second later, almost as if the faintest vibration from the first landing in the pocket had kicked it back, saved it.
I’d walk into Hell for you Sammy, kick whatever I had to to save you, but what do I do when you’re the one pushing me?
Third shot in, the cue ball double tapped the spot, sending it screwing into the side of the pocket and out again. The kid shrugged at him, casting a quick glance at his beer as Dean set it down on the empty table beside him and stepped forward. Rifling through his jeans, the youth pulled out a handful of change and tipped his head at the bar.
“Back in a ‘sec.”
“Sure.”
He barely noticed the kid leaving, his gaze fixed on the table, his other senses spreading a net across the room. The cue was warm in his hand, slick against his tented fingers as he lined up the shot, difficult enough to make losing it seem convincing even this early in the game but he just didn’t have the energy to string it out.
Soft, clashing top-hats rolled over him from the jukebox, a synth rippling out a rhythmic harmony that he thought he recognised as the cue ball cannoned into it’s target, sending both off across the table in opposite directions. He shrugged at the kid, leaning against the wall beside the battered juke, the cue in his hand wavering in a kind of off-tempo beat to the music. The youth grinned, pushed forward as Dean rolled his shoulders back into the wall, listening.
Sweet child in time, you’ll see the line. the line that’s drawn between the good and the bad.
He hid a shiver in the stiff leather of his coat, hunching his shoulders forward so it hung loose around him, almost glad when the kid groaned softly, thumping one fist gently on the cushion and eyeing the pile of money anxiously.
I can’t see that line anymore. Not since... Even in his head, it hurt to remember. Not since Dad made a deal with a devil. I can’t find anything to stand on now, it’s all... shifting. Changing.
See the blind man, shooting at the world, bullets flying, taking toll.
He swallowed hard, feeling the ache in his throat, in the scars on his chest subside with a sullen throb as he stepped forward, not caring how obviously he lost the game anymore. The white ricocheted from his three-ball, striking the black and following it into the pocket. He didn’t wait to see the shot play out, just turned, trying not to shake, locking his knees with each step he took. He felt them watch him, idle curiosity stirred among strangers before the door swung behind him and cut him off from the light and the life beyond.
His feet were steady as he walked to the edge of the lot, but he shuddered away from the scenes playing in his head, the past twisting into the imaginary, hazel eyes gone cold and empty boring into him, the gun in his hand ancient and scarred, pentagram etchings worn smooth by generations of touch. Salt coated his tongue, gunpowder and tears suffocating him as he groped blindly for the trees straggling around the asphalt, his fingers scraping over the bark and barely catching him as he doubled over, retching as the Colt bucked in his hand and roared in his head, never enough to cover the sound of his name in his brother’s voice, heavy with fear and scorn, love and hatred.
Through the thunder, he heard footsteps, a strange echo beneath the rhythm he recognised instantly and he straightened, eyes clearing with a rush that made his hand clutch at the tree as he swayed gently, scanning the wall of the bar, the quiet lot and the road beyond. The door banged open, a trio of young men staggering out, leaning on each other as their laughter soared into the dark but he barely heard it, the sound washing over him, leaving him behind as he dismissed them, shut out the last strains of music drifting from the open door. Light spilled from it, fanned out across the lot, shadows shifting in its wake. He only saw one figure, his restless gaze slamming to a halt the moment he saw his brother’s long stride carrying him away down the road, one hand waving down the old Mack truck that crawled through the town. He broke into a jog, knew he would never be in time and almost followed his stomach to the ground as the passenger door of the cab swung open, the lanky figure swinging up with familiar grace, a low laugh ringing through the night as the door creaked shut again, cutting it off with the rumble of the huge engine and he stared after the truck as it pulled away, stumbling to a halt with his heart pounding against the lump in his throat.
“Sammy...”
He cringed at the forlorn whisper, barely recognising it as his own and let himself stand frozen for a heartbeat, lost in the fading glow of the taillights until they blinked twice, the quick tap of the brakes pulling him from his reverie with a snap and a low squealing hiss. He turned, broke into a flat-out sprint, feet pounding the sidewalk and jolting his head as one hand dug into his pocket for the keys, fumbling them away from the cotton lining with a fierce jerk. A scrap of pale fabric fluttered on the wake behind him, ignored as he ran desperately, sucking down air and barely even sparing the time to wish he’d driven the short distance between the motel and the bar.
Finally, the sputtering neon sign came into sight, the Impala a gleaming shadow below and he found one last burst of energy, his elbow slamming into the roof as he crashed against the side of the door. His head swam, starbursts igniting and clouding his vision and he snarled, scrabbling the key at the lock until it slid in.
“Come on come on come on...”
He hauled the door open, threw himself in and for the first time in his life was glad for all the times he’d driven away from a hunt bleeding and dazed as his fingers slotted the key into the ignition on the first try, twisting it with a fierce grin that matched the growl of the engine as it roared, sending gravel spinning in the air, the door slamming closed half-way down the road.
The classic sped past the bar, and cold blue eyes watched him pass from the edge of the light still pouring into the parking lot, a pale hand swiping a dark trail across the still face. Streaked with blood the short, blunt fingers tapped a quick beat on denim, the grin slowly stained red but never faltering as that dead stare watched something it couldn’t see.
Dean’s hands shook on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, his ring tapping an unfocussed rhythm that jarred against his frantic heartbeat, against the desperate hope chanting in his head. Please, come on Sammy, please...
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing once, shook his head angrily as something burned at his eyes, his vision blurring at the edges.
“Come on, Dean.”
His jaw ached as he ground the admonishment out through gritted teeth, peering past the headlights splayed out before him as he searched for the truck that had stolen his brother, an irrational surge of anger clenching his fingers so tight around the wheel the aged plastic composite creaked under the strain. It faded as quickly as it came, left him choking down a whimper as the road stretched out ahead, empty and dark.
“Please, Sammy, please...”
He was lost, knew he was tail-spinning helplessly but he couldn’t see past the hazel eyes that were so empty in his head, couldn’t find a way to hide from the voices churning in his mind; you gotta watch out for Sammy... if you walk out that door, don’t come back... set him marching to the drums... you’re gonna have to let me go my own way... all alone in the big, bad world and you couldn’t take it... don’t be scared Dean... if you can’t save him...your miserable, screwed up life... for once in your life just shut your mouth...
“Shut up!”
He flinched from the echo of pain that flared across his back, the sting of the rock salt in the web of scars on his chest and in his eyes and he knew, no matter how deeply he buried that knowledge, he knew he was losing.
He almost wept when he saw brake lights stain the dark ahead, too high to be anything but the old Mack as approached the city boundaries. Moments later, he sped past the sign, ‘Welcome to Lewisburg, Tennessee, the Volunteer State’, didn’t even notice it as the truck slowed again, rolled to a quick stop at the side of the deserted road and the passenger door swung open. The lanky figure swung out, slammed the door shut again and tipped a jaunty, cocky salute at the cab as the truck roared away, the gear changes jerky and rushed. He saw the broad shoulders jerk once, heard the faintest whisper of taunting laughter roll through the growl of the engine then his brother was gone, walking calmly away from the road.
“Shit shit shit!”
Dean spun the wheel, the suspension groaning as the front wheels clawed their way up over the low curb, the chassis bouncing as the rest of the car followed. He didn’t care, just pressed the accelerator as far as he dared, weaving through the wide side road Sam had headed into, dodging crushed boxes, empty trash cans and the vacant stares of the shadows living in them. The walls closed in, left him claustrophobic and shaking with an adrenaline rush that was edged with guilt and fear until finally, he had to stop, fingers trembling so much he could barely pull the key from the ignition. His stare was locked against the slowly retreating figure ahead as he rolled out of the car, one hand slipping to his back and brushing over the colt tucked into his jeans, the other suddenly still as he locked the door and stuffed the keys in his pocket, his gait loose and easy as he crept forward, at odds with the tension crawling up his spine, through his shoulders with a shimmer of ice when he saw his brother stop dead, the soft echo of his last footstep carrying through the low hum of the city.
“Dammit, Sam, what the hell’s goin’ on?”
He barely whispered it as he pulled the .45 from the back of his waist, curling his fingers around the familiar grip and frowning as they trembled at the touch of the cool metal. The air stank of rotting trash, of urine and lives wasted in bottles and on the streets, the stench almost as his hands shufted slightly on the grip, adrenaline washing the exhaustion from his weary muscles. His footsteps, already quiet, became silent as he slipped forward towards the motionless figure, standing in the middle of the alley.
His brother was standing easily, hands relaxed by his side but his head was cocked to one side, attention fixed on a point Dean couldn’t make out. It sent a shiver down his spine. He knew every habit, every mannerism his brother had, and that just wasn’t one of them.
He lifted the gun slightly, eyeing the figure nervously, remembering the gun rock-steady as it aimed at his heart, the fury that had spilled from his brother and hurt him far more than any bullet ever could, still not at all sure that it was something controlling Sam; but he edged forward, wanting to know what it - whatever ‘it’ was - was staring at with his brother’s empty eyes. The gun led his sight as he crept alongside Sam, a lifetime of training making it instinctive; and that was what let his brother’s hand snap up impossibly fast the moment the weapon nosed too far forward for Dean to react as long fingers clamped hard around his wrist and twisted it backwards.
The gun fell from a grasp gone suddenly numb, and he cried out as he was forced to his knees, trying to follow the pressure that made tendons pop and tear, his free hand plucking uselessly at the iron grip.
“Gah! Sam, what...”
The boot that stamped into his solar plexus drove all the breath from his lungs and threw him back against the wall, but he barely had time to feel the pain of the blow before it swung again and crashed into the side of his head, slamming it back into the brickwork and he felt skin split at the contact, a long, bright trace of fire that spilt hot liquid, cooling fast as it slithered into his hair. He knew he slumped over bonelessly, knew the rainwater on the ground was soaking into his jeans, the grit scraping fine beads of blood out of his cheek; but all he saw was his brother, not pausing to finish the job or to gloat, not even looking at him; just turning away from him and walking down the alley as he finally let go and tumbled into the dark.
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