Fic: Wait For The Ricochet 6/7
:: :: ::
Time changes things, like I never thought
Time changes me, I'm like I never was.
I've seen it before, I'll see it again,
It's knocking my door and it never pretends,
I'm down on my knees and I don't know where to go
To find my back home I'm drowning.
:: :: ::
Something wrapped around his legs, knotting them in a tight grip, but that wasn't what pulled him away from the dark. It wasn't the heat of the sun on his back, or the stale smelling residue of the stagnant water as it dried on the blankets under him. It was something cold uncurling inside him, stirring long fingers in his stomach, sliding them up his spine; the certainty that he was alone again.
He came awake between one breath and the next, lay still and quiet, his eyes closed as he listened to the low whisper of the traffic outside where he should have heard the steady breaths that always matched his own.
"No. Dammit, no."
The blankets slid under him as he scrambled over them, unable to say the name that was roaring in his skull, as if the silence that would be the only reply would make it inescapable, real. He thought his heart stopped when his frantic stare landed on the phone, wrapped in leather, sitting in the sunlight on the table under the window but he'd felt that before, and nothing in Nebraska had hurt as much as he did now. Then it was inescapable, was real, and all he could do was fall back onto the crumpled blankets and scream inside his head.
What do I do now, Sammy? I can't find you if you don't want to be found but I can't do this on my own, I told you that at Stanford even if you didn't want to hear it. I can't, so what do I do?
He shook his head, trying desperately to fuel the anger burning sullenly in his gut.
"Screw you, Sam. You wanna take off and try to finish this on your own? Fine. You go, and I'll see you there, ‘cause I told you I'd never leave, and I meant it."
But for the first time in his life, the rage was cold, an unfamiliar weight in his stomach that had none of the comforting fire to burn away the sickness swelling in his throat. Dean turned, bolted for the bathroom, sliding to his knees in front of the toilet and shuddering as he retched. There was nothing left to come up, just memories that scalded him like acid, fear in his brother's eyes, guilt, love that crushed him, left him blind and scrabbling for breath, curled in on himself on the bathroom floor.
I promised you wouldn't have to leave, I promised myself I'd save you, Sammy, whatever Dad said, whatever you said, I promised I'd save you.
He'd been so cold standing there, with the heat of the flames on his cheeks, flaring through the barely healed scar above his eye, so cold he thought he would just shatter if he moved, a thousand shards of self crashing to the ground, crushed to powder under the ashes that danced slowly on the wind above him. and it had been so easy to stare into the flames and hear his brother falling apart beside him, so easy to know the heavy certainty that their father's last words were would destroy Sam, and so hard to stand there and lie.
His wrist spiked fire up his arm as he slammed his fist into the tub, the plastic cracking in a fine web of hurt and deceit, and he snarled at it, a low growl bubbling up his throat, pulling him to his knees. The basin brought him the rest of the way up, deliberately using his right hand to grip the edge and pull, relishing the pain with a feral death's head grin that did nothing to hide the terror searing through him with every beat of his heart, blazing magnesium igniting nerve endings, sending false signals to his muscles and making them tremble, twitch his hands into fists again and again. Shivers raced each other along his spine as he threw himself back into the main room, shrugged out of his over-shirt on the run, never stopping as he snatched a clean one from his bag and thrust his arms into the sleeves, eyeing the water stains on his leather jacket bitterly as he settled the flannel with a shrug of his shoulders.
He snatched his .45 from the weapons duffle between the beds, Sam's Glock alongside it, hot and cold contradictions against his back as he tucked both guns in his waistband; and he froze at the door, his hand hovering over his brother's phone, still tied in leather, sitting in the bright sunlight. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't find the momentum that had let him forget about the bruises and the exhaustion, the fear suddenly lead in his stomach as black fell behind his eyes, the sight of the thin strip of hide burned into his vision with everything it carried playing out in the dark; he was 19, cut loose for a rare afternoon without responsibilities, just he and Sam and the sun glittering from the lake, and the tiny store in the tiny town, a tall stand of limp, dark leather, butter-soft under his fingers and the silent agreement as they tied the bracelets on their wrists, the shared grins as their father walked in the door of the motel room that night and scowled at the jewellery. But they never took them off in the years that followed.
Salt splashed onto the back of his hand, and his breath caught as his fingers brushed over the leather; blocking the punches and kicks without even needing to see them, the world suddenly vibrant in the dark again and he could breathe for the first time in years as he saw that dark band still around Sam's wrist, and he knew he'd never lost his brother.
The phone clattered to the table, fell unnoticed over the edge as he ripped the bracelet away from it, tied it around his own wrist, the leather warmed by the sun, as if it had been worn just moments before. His eyes snapped open again, narrowed against the glare of the morning sun as he grabbed the keys and yanked the door open, barely hearing it slam close on his heels as he ran for the car, fumbled his way into the seat. He glanced in the mirror, shuddered away from the sight of empty hazel eyes, dead eyes, they're dead, staring back at him from an impossible distance and didn't look again, kept his eyes fixed to the road as it wound beneath the wheels, as quiet voice in the back of his mind steered him through the busy town; his father's voice, always knowing how to find his wayward sons.
"I'm comin', Sammy. You don't get to do this alone. You don't have to. I'm coming."
:: :: ::
Can you hear me?
Hear me screaming
Breaking in the muted sky.
This thunder heart,
Like bombs beating,
Echoing a thousand miles.
Can you feel me?
Feel me breathing,
One last breath before I close my eyes.
This offering,
For receiving,
Deliver me into the other side.
:: :: ::
Rough brick, warmed by his skin, scratching his cheek as he leant wearily back and let his head roll to the side, his gaze never leaving the bright square of light and life across the road. His neck popped, spine crackling softly as he hunched his shoulders, curled them forward, slowly stretching muscles cramping with the long wait, aching from the longer day. Sam let his eyes close for a moment, listened to his heart thump once in the dark, forced heavy lids open again and stared through the evening, at the windows flickering alive along the street; bright in the gloom as the clouds thickened overhead, watching him as he waited, hidden in the alley. His coat was dark, heavy, inches too short but he wore it comfortably, the days old stench of old sweat and stale urine unnoticed, the blood stains on the collar a constant ice against his neck. Dean's coat. Dean's blood.
The alley was empty now, the nameless, almost faceless shadows had shuffled away after he took the stolen coat back, his knuckles still aching with the rage for what he had done, what had been done to him. That anger had terrified him as it carried him into the small crowd, a tiny voice at the back of his mind whispering that maybe the look in his eyes now was the same one that Dean had seen as the water closed over his head. Only the memory of the scuffle eased Sam's frantic heart as he stood in the empty alley, his brother's coat clutched in one shaking hand, each breath echoing from the narrow walls, through his head as they slowed, died to a whisper he'd said so many times in the last three days, the last twenty-three years, and never meant so much.
"I'm sorry."
It rang in his mind as the sun fell, died in a glory of blood and fire, mirrored in the glass to a dozen blazing sunsets, the shadows moving through them, behind them faded imitations of people; noted, catalogued and ignored until he saw a slow, hidden smile that he recognised. Travis had walked past the alley, just feet from the hunter as Sam watched him, the young man's eyes gliding over the shadows as he smiled absently and saw nothing but another homeless ghost dressed in filthy, stinking rags and wild eyes.
In the dark, Sam fixed his eyes on the window again, remembering another hunt; another long night spent watching, waiting in Chicago. He swallowed hard as green eyes filled his mind; never more vivid than they were that night, filled with hurt as the brothers stood side by side and heard the low murmur; "Take care, boys." He hadn't seen it then, hadn't seen the pain that ran so deep in his brother, buried beneath the bloody fire of the Deavas's claws, and he hadn't recognised it until now, as he saw it in a room miles away; loss, betrayal, guilt, laid out in a silent wake for the trust he'd shattered yet again.
He almost didn't hear the steady, low rumble; didn't notice it, it was so familiar, so welcomed by that tiny, lonely voice that drowned out the fear. He'd known all day that the clock had been ticking with every beat of his heart, known there was no way he could stop his brother following him, finding him. Dean always did, no matter how far he ran. The Impala drifted past the alleyway, and Sam knew there was no reason for Dean to turn as he drove past, to peer into the alley but his stare locked onto Sam's; cold, carefully empty and filled with raging storms far beneath the ice, darkening the clear, weary green, muddying it with anger and relief. Sam smiled, his jaw trembling, resigned to anything but the tear that streaked over his brother's stubble-shadowed cheek as the hunter turned his gaze back to the road, the growl of the engine already slowing. The younger man waited until the car was out of sight before he let himself sag back into the wall, that last look of utter uncertainty eating away his strength as he fisted one weak hand, pounded it into the wall at his side.
How many times?
How many times could he walk away from his brother before Dean stopped looking for him, stopped waiting? Sam's teeth ground together, a low snarl of fury bubbling up his throat. He'd never seen his brother so broken; by the lingering pain of their father's death and the terrible weight he'd given the older brother to carry; by the hunt that had found them and sucked them in, spat them out again torn and shattered; the trust that they both relied on to keep their feet, to keep themselves moving slowly stripped away between the terrifying memories they didn't share, the empty spaces in his own mind that were filled in his brother's with unhealed hurts and cruel taunts that he knew would cut far more deeply than any wound.
His fist hit the wall again, hard enough to scrape skin from the side of his hand, cold air stinging the raw abrasion as he drew his arm back again, slammed it back down into warm flesh that caught it in an iron grip, betrayed by the razor-edged tremors that shimmered through his brother's body.
"Sam."
He didn't look up as his brother pushed his hand down, turned with a quiet sigh and leant against the wall next to him. They stood there in silence for a minute, for once neither one minding the chance to finally be still, waiting, hunting without the pressure of the fight, without the panic of flight for the first time in too many days. Sam kept his gaze on his feet, his brother's boot next to his, cocked to one side as the hunter angled his body to keep one eye on the windows watching them.
"Why aren't you mad?"
He felt the forced half-laugh through the shoulder that brushed his, thick cotton and canvas rustling softly between them.
"I said it before, I'll say it again. You're a stubborn bastard."
It was Sam's turn to choke out a low laugh, memories that should have hurt more than they did suddenly nothing more than a dull ache in the back of his mind, pushed away by the heat against his shoulder.
"Selfish."
"What?"
"You said selfish bastard on the way to Indiana."
That night I walked away from you, made you choose again between me and the only life you ever had, made you drive away and leave me behind because I didn't know if I could keep walking.
"Yeah, well, that too. He in there?"
Sam nodded, his gaze sweeping over the distant window, seeing the flickering blue light and the shadows behind the glass. Dean sighed quietly, a soft huff of air, deliberately setting aside the storm churning sullenly in his guts.
"Sam?"
"What?"
"Why're you wearing my coat?"
He smirked as the younger man blinked in surprise, staring down at his arm as if he'd forgotten he was clad in the stinking canvas.
"Found it. Thought you'd want it back."
"Dude, not ‘til you've cleaned it. That thing stinks."
Dean pulled his attention away from his brother, when all he wanted to do was sit there in the alley, let the sight and feel of Sam next to him soften the burn of the acid that curled down his spine from his mind, from the memories that played out on the back of the mask behind his eyes. His hand shook once, heat flashing under the bandages as he twisted it, unconsciously mimicking the pressure that had forced him to his knees, his head ballooning as the world span around him, the cold breeze brushing the touch of his brother's empty, dead stare over his skin again, the rough fingers that slipped past his defences, ripped away his isolated security.
Iron flooded his tongue, snapped him away from the dark again. I've lived my life in the night but I've never been afraid of the dark. Not really. But he couldn't hide the cringe that twitched at his shoulders as he stared into the shadows around them, couldn't stop his eyes darting through it, searching for the figures that he knew lurked there. It was irrational, a pitiful fear in the face of the nightmare that had taken over their lives; but he'd never felt so helpless as he had when he struggled awake, his body controlled by some demented puppet-master as they stripped him, shadows made flesh, given voice that uttered soft grunts of possession and ignored him totally.
Dean swallowed the tang in his mouth, felt it bite heavily at the back of his throat and pried his jaws apart, pulling his teeth away from the neat crescent cut into his lip. The small sting was enough to pull the fear back down, to let the anger see-saw up again. They'd been out of control too long, chasing their tails as Travis watched and laughed from the shadows, and he'd had enough. He smirked back at Sam, a mirthless-twist of battered lips that sent a fresh rill of liquid heat under his tongue as he pushed away from the wall.
"Come on. Let's get this little son-of-a-bitch."
He almost recoiled as Sam's eyes turned cold and hard in answer, his lungs freezing in the stare before he saw the fury boiling under the surface. Then their feet fell in perfect time, echoing softly from the walls, and he felt the steady beat of the world as it fell back into place again.
They slipped across the road; quickly, calmly, as if they were just walking down the street, knowing it was the perfect camouflage. All Dean wanted to do was crouch low to the damp asphalt and run as if all the hounds of hell were chasing them, herding them towards the psychic, but he forced his stride to stay loose and long, deliberately pulled his shoulders down from the hunch they kept trying to climb into, and he felt his brother beside him do the same as they neared the broad steps to the apartment block, the heavy door painted brick-red. Brass locks glinted against the bright colour, even in the quickly gathering dark as dusk fell away, left night behind. Dean hung back, let Sam climb the stairs first, knowing his injured wrist would make picking the lock slow and painful. He scuffed his boots loudly against the stone as he stepped up behind his brother, dragging his feet to cover the soft click and scrape of the picks against the lock. The younger man flashed him a quick grin as the door swung open in moments, then they crossed the threshold, and the sounds of the world fell away.
The hunters paused for a moment, scanning the hallway as they felt the heat sink into chilled skin. Sam shivered a little beside him, sniffed once, and Dean frowned and reached up as he walked forward past the younger man, lightly whacking his hand across the back of his brother's head.
"Dude, way to play the big bad hunter."
"Sorry."
Their soft banter was familiar, but it tasted strange on his tongue, as if it was a foreign language he barely understood.
Get it done. We can deal with what he did to us later, just get the job done.
But some part of his mind whispered that ‘later' might be too late, a tiny paradox that gloated even as it wept.
Somehow, his breathing was even as he led the way to the dark staircase that twisted through the back of the building, easing in front of his brother as he always did; and if his spine crawled with the feel of that tall presence at his back, if the hairs on the back of his neck ripple upright with the expectant memory of a large hand crushing them, he refused to let himself feel it. His wrist twinged as he lifted his arm, brushed his fingers across the smooth, cool grip of the pistol tucked into his waistband, and a flicker of a grimace pulled at his features as he finally climbed onto the last step, turned onto the narrow landing with a quick glance behind him. Sam met his eyes, a flash of hazel in the dark, intent, curiously reluctant; then the younger man focused past his shoulder, on the badly-hung door that let a fine spray of light paint the tattered, stained carpet through the gap between the wood and the floor. Shadows wavered through it, footsteps seen but unheard, and Dean felt adrenaline shiver through his veins at the sight, let his mind turn cold and pulled the pistol free of his jeans, the metal scraping lightly, deliciously over his spine.
They crept down the hallway, stealth taking the place of nonchalant anonymity now there was no-one there to see them, their movements drifting through molasses as the thrill of the hunt kicked their senses up a gear. He laid one hand next to the handle, the bandages on his wrist white in the dark as Sam reached down next to him, the black Glock mirroring his own chromed .45, shadowing it as his brother brushed his fingers around the door-knob and turned it with the barest hint of pressure until they both felt it click open through the light contact. The younger man froze, met his eyes, a silent count between them that hadn't needed to be voiced or signed in a decade or more.
The hunters burst through the door in perfect synchronicity, Sam crouching low as Dean rolled his shoulders across the frame, the pistol leading his sight as it slowed and staggered over the smiles and tears, the blood and laughter that covered the walls and the floor, hundreds of faces staring at him from the dark.
The stunned curse died in his throat as the air rushed out of him, a silent gasp as his knees sagged, cracked into his brother's spine as Sam crouched in front of him, frozen by the sight of their own images, repeated again and again and again, staring back at the brothers as a soft laugh broke the shadows.
:: :: ::
I'm still waiting, I still bleed,
That's a sign that I'm still me,
I'm still breathing, I can't see,
So I must be alive for real.
:: :: ::
Dean reached down, gripped Sam's shoulder as they wobbled; steadied them both with the trembling grasp and listened to the quiet laugh as it faded. He could feel his brother twitching under his hand as the younger man snapped a wild gaze from picture to picture, but all he could see was the shadow that stepped out of them; slight, narrow shoulders quivering with the left-over humour. Amber and silver sculpted the psychics face, the sodium glare of the streetlights blending smoothly with the moon to make the grin black with old blood and new, but it could never be as dark as the smile in Travis' eyes as he met the hunter's glare easily and took one more step forward.
"Love what you've done with the place."
Dean grated it out as he shifted his grip on the gun, knowing he'd only have one chance but still hesitating, as he had only once before. Then, the pause had let the shifting echoes sink into his mind; ‘I see you. Bye bye,' turn his hands and jam the muzzle of the rifle under his locked jaw, ignoring the silent, horrified screams that rang through his skull.
Now, his aim was unwavering, fixed between those pale blue eyes, his own stare so intense he barely saw Sam move from his crouch, slumped against Dean's legs; and there was nothing he could do to stop his brother slamming crossed wrists into the barrel of his pistol as he pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash seared the room, the stink of cordite and burnt hair drifting on his frustrated cry as the shot went wild, the bullet crashing into the wall. He froze as he saw the photograph shudder, the smouldering hole dead centre in a face nearly hidden beneath the grease-stained ball cap; and his stare was locked onto it as it fell, trailing a thin tail of smoke through the shadows.
"Bobby..."
His whisper would have dropped him to his knees, as he finally recognised the other faces staring back at him from the walls, the smiles and the glares he hadn't let himself see.
Joshua, Caleb, Ellen, Ash, Jim...
But he never had a chance to fall. Sam charged him, an impossible force that shrieked with the wail of tortured metal and shattering glass in his head as his head snapped to the side and his feet were lifted from the ground. For a moment he was weightless, lost in the images that crowded him, pictures and memories that swamped him with almost tangible weight; then he was crushed between the scratched boards and his brother as Sam followed him down. Dean felt something give in his chest, heard the crunch as his brother's shoulder drove into the floor at his side and they landed in a tangle of limbs and pictures.
"Sam!"
His cry ended in a strained grunt as Sam shoved an elbow up under his jaw, extending his neck back until his breath rattled through his throat and cramps raced along his spine, through the bone of his skull. But it was that cold, grave-deep stare that nailed him to the floor, held him motionless as footsteps shivered through the wood under his back and Travis' pale blue eyes met his.
"He's gone, Dean. Drowned in all that hurt and fury he carries in his head."
"No..."
"Yes. He's got so much hate inside him it's terrifying. Even for me."
"Why...him..."
Dean forced the words out through the pressure in his throat, the sound barely human but the psychic understood.
"Yellow eyes said I couldn't touch you. Shame. Would've been nice to see what happened, because it's not just hate and anger in there, is it? All that love, all that fear, wrapped up in self-loathing and regret. I can almost taste it."
The hunter shuddered as Travis leant close to him, licked his lips slowly, the light deep in those pale eyes sickeningly wrong; and he suddenly knew the psychic had given up any shred of humanity he had left long ago. Dean turned his gaze back to his brother, made himself meet the too-dark regard squarely.
"Sam."
He whispered it, felt the tremor through the elbow still pressed harshly against his jaw.
"He can't hear you, Dean."
He tuned out the words, let them drift over him and leave him untouched until all that he knew was the heat of his brother's body sprawled over his, and the empty stare that wasn't quite empty anymore.
"Sammy, please."
It was all he needed to do.
Dean watched as the light buried so far in the black surged up, ignited in his brother's eyes, and as Sam cried out and scrambled away from him Dean surged to his feet, the knife from the sheath on his brother's back painting a fine trail across translucent skin as it drew a thin bead of blood from Travis' neck. He didn't look, didn't dare turn away from the psychic as he pressed forward, shoving Travis back with the knife at his throat until the young man's back hit the wall; but he felt Sam's fear as his brother crumpled into the corner, and for the first time in his life, he was glad of it. Sickeningly, wrenchingly glad of the pure emotion that tainted the air around them both, because as long as he felt it, he knew his brother was still himself, still watched him from wide, warm eyes, bright with the adrenaline rush.
Travis swallowed, the keen edge slicing a razor-edge slither of skin free with the motion.
"He can't... no-one can stop it..."
The stuttering gasp sounded so young, so lost and defeated that Dean hesitated, pulled back a little; and the psychic grinned, bloody and foul as his hands came up between them, slammed against the hunter's chest and sent fire crunching through his ribs. Dean staggered back, the pictures sliding under his boots as he fell to one knee, fighting to breathe through the saw-toothed flames raging in his chest.
"Dean!"
He shook his head, the instinct to snatch his brother up and run overwhelming, but all he could do was gesture Sam back and suck in a breath laced with shards of glass as he forced himself to his feet, barely aware of his brother pulling himself up the wall. Dean turned, put himself in front of Travis and felt bile rise in his throat as he saw blood spill from the young man's eye. He shifted his grip on the knife still clutched in his hand; felt a shiver claw up his spine as Travis sneered at him.
"You'll never be quick enough. Not to stop us both."
From the corner of his eye he watched his brother push away from the wall, saw the way Sam held his arm tight against his side as he stepped forward. His voice was barely more than a whisper, a low rumble that stung his throat, still raw from the drowning.
"I don't need to. You can't touch him, not if he won't let you."
"Are you sure, Dean? Sure enough?"
There was no hesitation, there couldn't be, no matter that his mouth dried and his heart fluttered, terrified wing-beats in a cracked and broken cage. nice
"Yes."
His voice was still low, still too quiet; but he knew his brother heard, saw Sam's shoulders droop for a moment with relief, then square again as the younger man turned slightly to face Travis, stepped forward until the brothers stood side by side, arms just brushing with a contact that flooded strength through Dean and this time, when he spoke, his voice rang out in the dark. It took all the skill he'd learned in a lifetime of hustling to keep it from breaking.
"I'm sure. He's my brother, and I'd trust him with anything. With everything."
The young man cocked his head to one side, an eerily feral gesture as he regarded them through narrowed, pale eyes, tears pooling in one and running black over his cheek to join with the blood still trickling from his smile.
"You just did."
Travis lifted a hand, shaking it out in an obscurely graceful gesture, and wind sprang up around them, snatching the pictures from the walls, tossing them into the maelstrom and driving them into the brothers. The force built, pushing at them, pulling them, stripping away any sense of up or down and sucking the air from their lungs. His balance already shaky, Dean staggered, his arm crashing into Sam's, his resolve wavering under the tide of vertigo that crushed him. The younger man lashed out a hand, gripping his bicep firmly and for a moment he felt the bruising force crushing his wrist, his neck, felt the water claw its way down his throat again. Then Sam turned, just enough to meet his wide-eyed gaze, and the light in his eyes did more to steady Dean than the physical contact ever could, the reassurance, the plea silent but so potent his vision swam with it, and he still didn't know if it was enough.
You said you trust me, man. So trust me.
I can't.
He closed his eyes too late to stop the betrayal knifing between them, too late to hide from the pain that cut so deeply into him he felt it slice through his heart with a shudder.
I can't trust myself to save you.
He shook his head, his legs going weak and only the angry grip on his arm kept him up, fingers grinding into muscles and shaking him once, demanding, begging. He never could say no to his baby brother.
With a choked gasp, he forced his head up, his eyes open again, and stared into Sam's face, knowing they'd never had a choice, never had a chance of avoiding this, and all they could ever do was stand together, fight and hope together. Salt spilled over his lashes, burned in the bruises and scratches on his face as a twisted smile contorted his lips; and he let his brother's hand drop away from him without a word as Sam spun back around and stepped forward, into the storm, pulling all the light, all the world with him. Dean crouched, let his weight fall forward onto his good hand as pictures slipped under it, felt the splintered holes in the floor drive shards of wood through the photos into his skin as the jolt shot up his spine, jarring his head; but it didn't seem to matter anymore.
A dozen Sams stared at him, a dozen familiar smiles breaking him, the eyes above them full of life and warmth, as his fingers groped towards the silver shadow glittering above a paper heart. He couldn't look up, couldn't stand to see the lie those pictures told, and the weight of metal in his hand sent a flare of ice curling through his wrist as he dragged the gun to him, staggered to his feet again amid the vortex of faces, the pictures snapping against the air, against his skin, the stares that brushed over him trying to drag his arm down even as he lifted it with a cry, the motion suddenly easy, his finger pulling back, driving the knife into his heart again with a thunderous roar, and the air was painted with crimson.
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