The Long and Winding Road, 2/3
A/N Beta'ed by Sharlot, the best beta ever! Thank you, darling!
CHAPTER 2
Dean woke up to the smell of hospital, one of the things he hated the most in his life. The light came next - so bright that it forced him to close his eyes as soon as he opened them. His thoughts seemed to move lazily like fish under water; every time he tried to catch one and drag it over the surface, they all dispersed quickly. After a moment he decided to give up. He'd never been a fan of fishing anyway, he lacked the patience for it.
His head began to ache from the effort, and probably also because of drugs. The drugs... the hospital... His eyes shot open once again as the memories from the previous night slammed into his head like a flock of harpies. He groaned softly, both at the physical pain and the chaos in his head. Finally, he managed to grasp some more coherent thought and he tried to concentrate on it, slowly recalling bits and pieces of what had happened the previous night. What he recalled only made him angry. Had he really managed to get himself into such a mess that he'd needed his brother to literally haul him to the ER? He shook his head, and pain hit him straight between the eyes, reminding him to avoid such movements for this moment. He took a few deep breaths and took stock of his body, this time much more carefully. The white-hot agony from the previous night was gone, which he was thankful for. There was an IV in the crook of his elbow, he also felt a dressing under his hospital gown. With every movement the stitches in his abdomen pulled, which drew a sharp hiss the first time he tried it, but compared to his previous experience with being hospitalized, he decided he could live with that. He'd bet he was already more used to stitches than any other patient in his ward, maybe even in the whole hospital.
He licked his lips unconsciously, realizing how much time must have passed since he'd last drank anything. He cast a glance to his left, fully expecting to see his brother, but, to his surprise, the green plastic car was empty. He blinked slowly and looked around in confusion.
He only vaguely remembered what had happened after Sam had found him throwing up his guts on the hard concrete floor of the garage, but he knew his brother had managed to get him to the hospital in time to save his life.
His first thought was that Sammy must have gone to the restroom, but although his thoughts still swirled in his head too fast to really grasp one of them, he finally managed to understand that too much time had passed for Sam to leave just for a while.
When a nurse's head finally appeared in the doorway, he gave out a long sigh of relief.
“Mornin',” she chirped. “Good to see you back with us. How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” His voice sounded like a coffin lid opening. She must have noticed it, since she left without a word, and soon came back with a cup of water and a straw. He took it gratefully and sipped for a few times, enough to get his voice back to ask:
“Have you seen my brother?”
“The tall, long-haired guy? He was here when you came out of surgery, but left soon after.”
“Ah...” he nodded and once again was reminded why he shouldn't do this yet.
“Your head aches?” asked the nurse with concern, noticing his grimace.
“No, I'm okay,” he lied, eager to get rid of her as soon as possible. The woman was young and kind of sexy, he had to admit, still he didn't feel much like flirting. All he wanted right now was to be left alone with his thoughts, hoping he could finally make their mad polka dance stop for good.
The nurse must have noticed his mood, because she stopped trying to engage him in a conversation, simply checked his fever and dressings and turned back to leave the room.
“Wait,” Dean stopped her. “Can you give me my things back? I want to leave.”
“You want to leave?” she repeated, her expression shocked. “You've just woken up after a life-saving surgery!”
“I'll be fine, just give me my phone and wallet back,” he cut her off. His mind was concentrated on only one idea: Sammy's not here, something must be wrong.
“You didn't have a wallet with you. In fact, the only possession we found on you was a pocket knife, which, by the way, we are keeping in the safe for you.”
There was a hint of curiosity in the last statement. Dean ignored it, though. Instead of answering the woman, he slowly sat up. Somewhere at the bottom of the moody pool of his mind, there still seemed to be an awareness that he didn’t have any way to reach Sam, or the bunker for that matter, if he managed to leave. He ignored it as well, concentrating his whole energy on rising to his feet. He managed to do that, and even sent a triumphant smile towards the nurse, who still stood in the doorway watching him. At that moment, his head spun and he surged forward. With help of what he suspected was some magic trick, the nurse managed to approach him quick enough to catch his arm and gently lower him back to the bed. He groaned loudly in frustration, but, all his energy spent, he had no other choice than to let her push him all the way back and tuck a blanket around him.
“I guess you're not leaving AMA then,” she smiled, but then added with more serious expression. “I'm sure your brother left only because he had to, and he'll probably be back soon anyway. I know he cares a lot about you.”
“No, he doesn't,” Dean whispered in response. It all dawned on him at once, making him feel as if he was drowning in his own mind. Sam didn't care. Sam had stated clearly he no longer regarded Dean as his brother.
A year ago his Sammy’d sit all night in this uncomfortable, plastic chair. Sammy’d refuse to be chased away by nurses. Sammy would be there for his brother when he woke up. Because that’s what brothers did-what they needed to do. Because they didn’t know any other way.
Those days were long gone now, so long that to Dean they seemed like the life of some other person. There was no 'his Sammy'. There was Sam, the strong, self-dependent, angry man.
He had every reason to be angry, though. So many reasons that Dean couldn't even bring himself to think about them without that terrible drowning feeling he knew too well. It was his fault. He'd let his brother down....
Still, despite all that had happened between them, he'd expected to see his brother's huge form curled in the too small chair, as he had so many times before. It still hurt him to realize Sam simply had seen no reason to stay with him.
Time passed, nurses and doctors came and went. There still was no sign of the younger Winchester, and Dean had finally drifted back to sleep.
It was dark all around him. He was running, bumping into walls he couldn't see, falling to his knees every couple of steps until his whole body ached, but he didn't stop, didn't even slow down. He knew he had to reach Sammy before it was too late.
The narrow corridors went on and on, sometimes turning unexpectedly, sometimes dividing into two or more passages, forcing him to feel his way into one or another without any clue where he was going, where he was supposed to go. The whole place reminded him of a labyrinth. He couldn't do it alone, he realized. He needed help.
“Bobby!” he called out loud, and when only silence responded, it dawned on him that his surrogate father was dead. The realization of it hit him so hard that he stopped dead in his tracks. No one would help him. He was trapped here. He couldn't reach Sammy in time. There was no one else to call. Everybody, who might have cared about what happened to him or his brother, was dead. Most of them because of him. Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Rufus, Kevin... The young prophet’s face with his eyes burned out still haunted him every time he closed his eyes.
Suddenly, a bright light hit his eyes. It seemed to come from no direction and every direction at once. It blinded him, filled his head with white-hot agony. He screamed.
After a short moment, the light subsided, and he managed to open his eyes again. The labyrinth was gone. It could have never been there in fact. He was standing in a huge room, its floor made of hard stone, its walls so far away that they were still half-hidden by the veil of darkness.
In the middle of the room there was a body. He recognized it immediately and took a shaky step back.
“It's impossible,” he whispered.
Black eyes opened, revealing equally burned-out pupils.
“You promised, Dean,” Kevin said, and it sounded so close, as if he was whispering straight into Dean's ear. “You promised to protect me. I trusted you!”
“I know,” he answered, even though he knew his friend couldn't be real. “I'm sorry, Kevin. But I have to find Sam before it's too late, please, help me find him!”
“It's already too late,” Kevin said sadly. His head turned away, eyes concentrating on the darkness to Dean's right. Slowly, a tall figure emerged into the light. He'd recognize that person everywhere.
“I trusted you!” Sam repeated Kevin's words, louder, more menacing. “You let me down! I've always known you cannot be trusted. You're too pathetic, too concentrated on yourself. Your needs, your pleasures, you're a selfish little bastard!”
“It's not true, Sam, you know it's not true...” he tried to defend himself.
Sam gave out a sharp laugh, so unlike his brother's normal guffaw.
“You tricked me. You betrayed me. And now you want forgiveness?”
“I'm sorry!”
“Too late for that.” Sam's eyes lit with a bright blue light and when it was gone, Dean knew for sure it was not his brother standing in front of him.
“You!” he hissed. But Gadrael wasn't looking at him anymore. He was shooting glances and nods of approval, maybe even greeting, towards more figures emerging from the darkness. Dean could recognize them all. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry...” he repeated, terrified of the moment they started speaking.
“Too late for that,” they repeated once more.
“You let us down...”
“You failed to save us...”
“We trusted you...”
“Noooo!” Dean tried to cover his ears with his hands, but the shadows kept on approaching him, their voices getting louder and louder all around him. Every person he'd failed to save. There were dozens of them, and still more were coming, joining in the choir. Gadrael was leading them, deliberately altering his expressions to look just like his brother.
“Pathetic!”
“Loser!”
“Coward!”
“Traitor!”
“Murderer!”
“Dean!”
“I'm sorry, Sammy,” he sobbed. “I'm so sorry...”
“Dean. Hey, Dean, you've got to breathe, okay?” A warm hand encircled his bicep. He shuddered and tried to cower, but the hit he expected never came.
“Slowly, in and out. Just calm down...” The voice coaxed him gently. “That's right. Now, open your eyes. Will you do that for me?
Dean slowly blinked, trying to focus on the shape in front of him.
“Sammy?”