SPN Fic: Madness Is The Emergency Exit [Part Five]
Part Five
The FBI’s onto them now, catching the trail of the killers in the black muscle car. It doesn’t matter. They linger on the tyre-marks of the Impala, trailing behind in red-painted remains and dusty grey ash. There are no leads for them to follow, no witnesses left behind. The Federal Bureau of Investigation, they have rules and regulations, codes and protocols. They’re no threat to the Winchesters.
It’s this man who’s the threat, this hunter, this Gordon Walker. While the FBI is two weeks behind, Gordon’s only two days slow. Bobby’s gruff voice tells them about the man over the crackling cell network and the Winchesters can hear the thought put into his words. They’ve become carefully chosen, as though he’s tip-toeing around an issue the Winchester’s haven’t yet realised.
“He’s a good hunter but dangerous. People have been saying he thinks that Sam’s some kind of Anti-Christ.” The brothers refuse to look at each other when Bobby says that, fix their eyes on the vomit-yellow wallpaper instead. “I wouldn’t say he’s recruiting but he’s been telling everyone to kill you, Sam, and-” Bobby pauses for a moment “-some are agreeing. He’s building a following.”
Dean falls silent then, can’t speak for the rest of the short conversation. Anger has frozen his jaw shut, every muscle screaming at this man, this hunter, who dares to suggest that he should kill Sam. His veins pump fury to every cell in his body and all he can think is these men and their false messiah would look beautiful in red.
He reaches out, hand wrapping around Sam’s wrist in a grip that has to hurt. Sam doesn’t complain, just thanks Bobby and assures him that the brothers are fine. Still their friend remains, not wanting to hang up and leave the Winchesters against the world, the world against the Winchesters.
“Just...” So many pauses to filter words and keep opinions away from them. If it was anyone but Bobby they would press cold metal to skin and see how quickly the words came then. “Be careful.”
The phone line clicks to dead. Dean grips Sam tightly, face stormy. There’s no hiding from the world now. He’s sure that it must be written all over his face. There’s no hiding from the world that wants to kill his little brother. Dean will end it all before he lets Sam die.
“I think we’ve found a hunt, Sammy,” Dean says with a smile and Sam grins back. Beside them Mary claps her hands with a gleeful expression but Dean doesn’t see her because he’s pressing his brother into the mattress and he’ll never let go.
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Sam’s dreams don’t work like most people’s, or he doesn’t think they do anyway. His dreams are predictions that linger for hours or days or weeks or months until suddenly they slip into reality. One night he’ll see a woman’s throat ripped out by a hissing creature and the next week he’ll find the corpse.
There’s no explaining them, no certainty in their existence. He doesn’t tell Dean because he doesn’t know what he can say. I’m dreaming the future, Dean. That’s great, Sammy! That conversation doesn’t work doesn’t fit into the world. There’s no sense to be found in those words.
So he keeps it to himself and if he wakes beside his brother when the sun hasn’t come up, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he lies there and wonders where these dreams are coming from, wonders why he’s the one to see what’s yet to happen. It doesn’t make sense.
This morning it’s quarter to five when Sam wakes suddenly. Still dark, the night presses and only the steady breathing beside him holds back the urge to turn on the light. He can’t remember what the dream was about, not yet. It’ll come to him though; they always do, in over-saturated images and quick, violent movements.
For now he rolls closer to Dean, thankfully for the way his brother’s arm is casually slung over his hip. They don’t really fit together easily, too much Winchester in too small a space. Neither of them complains. It’s not about comfort or chick-flick moments. It’s about the certainty of life, the assurance that there’s someone watching their back.
The clock has flicked over to eight by the time Dean wakes up. His eyes open slowly; peel back until Sam can see the green that has been hidden from him during the night. Dean smiles then, rubs his thumb along the soft curve of Sam’s hip and digs his fingers into warm skin. They’re still alive. No one has been to kill them while they slept.
“How long?” Dean’s voice is rugged with sleep.
“Not long.” Sam never tells him how badly he sleeps. Never lets him know about the dreams. He doesn’t need to, there’s no point.
“Shower.” Neither of them moves. This is how their mornings start, this is how they always start, slow and sluggish, wrapped in each other’s warmth. Sam leans forward, is about to press his forehead to his brother’s when memory of the dream explodes into his mind.
Gordon. There’s a gun. Teeth are white marble. Eyes read the numbers. Room 53. There’s a gun and it’s loaded. Room 52. It’s here, it’s here, it has to be here. Black Impala in the parking lot. Room 51. The clerk said two brothers had checked in. There’s a gun. It flashes silver in the morning sunlight.
Sam opens his eyes and he barely has time, doesn’t have time. There’s a shadow at the door and he doesn’t have time. The door of room 51 slams open and the brothers tangled in bed don’t have time, never had time. There’s a gunshot and Sam feels warm liquid spurt against him. Green eyes stare motionless at him and the fire has been blown out.
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Sunlight slams into his eyes when he wakes. He remembers the dream. Sam remembers and Gordon’s coming to kill them. Desperately he lashes out at the hands trying to hold him back. There’s a shadow on the door and all he can see are green eyes but they don’t see him anymore.
A fist connects with his jaw and Dean’s there, gathering him in, holding Sam together. His green eyes are worried and they flick about alive, so alive. Light slips through the window and reflects in Dean’s eyes s so it seems the fire’s still burning, always burning in Sam’s brother.
Unbidden, a whimper breaks from his mouth as Sam collapses back onto the bed, jaw stinging. They’re in hotel room 13 and there’s no shadow at the door. There’s no Gordon coming to blow out Dean. Instead Sam’s brother’s leaning over him, hand over Sam’s heart, face creased with concern.
“Sam?” His voice is rough and demanding, typical Dean hiding concern under prickles. “What the fuck was that?”
What’s the answer? It was just a dream, just a nightmare, nothing to worry about. That’s the easiest road, pain-free, judgement-free. If he takes that turn he’s no more twisted than his brother. He’s no more of a freak than Dean. That’s the easy road until the dream comes true.
“I- it-” Sam swears under his breath, closes his eyes and tries to decide what the answer is. Dean’s hand’s a heavy weight on his chest and Sam thinks he can feel his heartbeat where the brothers meet. “I’ve been having these dreams.”
So this is the answer. Sam opens his eyes and Dean looks thoroughly unimpressed. “I have these dreams and then they come true.”
Dean’s face goes blank, a meticulously shaped mask that gives away nothing but its existence. “What?”
“Sometimes the things I dream come true.” Itch shivering under his skin, Sam pushes away his brother’s hand, rolling out of bed. Dean doesn’t move stays half-lying under the sheets, and his gaze doesn’t follow Sam. “Sometimes I might dream someone being killed before it happens or a hunt before we find it. Not all of my dreams are like this but some-”
He doesn’t have the words anymore. For a moment neither of them moves, honouring the silence that stretches between them. Then, without a word, Dean pushes himself out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. Silence fills the room but now the room’s too big to be full. Then the shower starts up and all that’s left is the absence of Dean.
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A hand slamming into his chest wakes Dean. For a moment he can’t move, trying to catch his breath, trying to catch up to reality. Dreams of the Impala finally peel away and Sam’s thrashing around in bed next to him, eyes darting wildly about the room.
At first Dean thinks there’s a hidden evil, some monster that has snuck in to kill them while they slept. But there’s nothing there except bad dreams. Carefully avoiding his brother’s flailing fists, he tries to calm Sam, tries to quell his fearful fit. It takes a fist to the jaw for his brother to snap out of it.
Finally Sam’s eyes meet his and see him. Brown catches on green and realisation dawns. Dean follows his brother down, sliding a hand over his soft skin to make sure Sam’s heart‘s still beating. He knows the concern’s too obvious on his face but Dean can’t bring himself to care.
“Sam?” His voice grates in his throat, unsure of itself. “What the fuck was that?”
It was just a nightmare of course, just a monster in the night creeping through Sam’s head. With all the things that the Winchester brother’s do, it’s not surprising that they have bad dreams and Dean’s not stupid; his brother hasn’t been sleeping well lately. Still, he’s never had nightmares like this.
“I- it-“Eyelids fall down to shutter Sam’s eyes as he stammers and swears. This is something different from the common collisions of sleep. “I’ve been having these dreams.” Dean doesn’t stop the disbelieving look. “I have these dreams and then they come true.”
“What?”
“Sometimes the things I dream come true.” Sam shoves his way out of their bed but Dean doesn’t move, can’t move. He can’t let even his eyes follow his brother. “Sometimes I might dream someone being killed before it happens or a hunt before we find it. Not all of my dreams are like this but some-”
These words shouldn’t make sense, can’t make sense. Sam’s telling Dean that he’s different, that there’s something wrong that Dean can’t fix, can’t even explain or understand. Sam’s telling Dean that he’s dreaming the future and he’s completely serious, voice riddled with fear and apprehension.
Freak. It’s the first word that comes to Dean’s mind and as soon as he thinks it, he hates himself. This is his brother, his Sammy. Freak isn’t a word he can use. It fits though, a little part of him whispers. Sam with his big hands that set the world on fire set Dean on fire. Sam can see the future and Dean can’t deal with this.
He has to get away. There’s no staying there in the single bed they share, pinned under Sam’s puppy-dog eyes. He can’t be near his brother when he needs to think. The bathroom offers blissful reprieve with the waterfall shower and steam that blurs the world until it’s not a distraction any more.
Sam can dream the future. In time Dean will be able to laugh at how ridiculous that sounds. In time it’ll sound like the cringe-worthy tagline of some b-movie. Sam Winchester can dream the future and one day he dreams of the one he’ll spend the rest of his life with.
That’s not what he dreamt though. Steam clouds out the world and Dean can focus. Sam was dreaming something bad with those flailing limbs and scared eyes. It wasn’t just your average monster or ordinary murder. This is something else and whatever it is, Sammy’s scared so Dean needs to kill the fucker.
When he finally turns the water off, Dean’s skin in pink from the heat. A pair of briefs are on the floor, thrown haphazardly as Dean had shed his clothes as quickly as possible the night before. He figures it can’t hurt to pull them back on. Serious conversations are often better had somewhat clothed.
Sam’s sitting on the untouched bed when Dean comes out of the bathroom, expression clouded with despair. He doesn’t look up as Dean pulls on a t-shirt and drops down opposite him. Their tousled bed smells of sweat and Winchester and Dean thinks it’s wrong how comforting that is.
“Okay, Sammy.” The younger Winchester sharply, sunlight catching the surprise on his face. He expected harsher words from his brother. “Tell me what you dreamt.”
Sam doesn’t say anything for a moment, gaze searching for a hidden meaning in Dean’s face. He finds none. “It- Gordon was there. I mean, you and I were asleep in a hotel room.” He pauses, eyes looking distant, caught up trying to remember. “Room 51. Gordon was looking for us. He had a gun. I woke up but there wasn’t time to warn you. Gordon shot- he shot-”
Sam’s words cut off, sputter to a halt. The urge to pull his brother close and make him forget is almost overwhelming but Dean can’t lose the thread. He has to know if this is the future. Instead of pushing Sam back into the mattress, he rubs a hand across his face, tries to concentrate.
“So you think Gordon’s going to catch up to us at a hotel in room 51?” Sam nods, face a crime scene of despair. “And he’s going to what, shoot you?”
“Maybe.” Sam’s eyes meet Dean’s and the brown’s hazel in the thin film of water there. “I woke up when he shot you.”
“Oh.” Something changes in Dean then. Before it was uncertainty and denial floating in his head, concern about what is going on, what his brother has become.
Now anger surges forward, the match that holds the flame. ‘Fucking Gordon and his twisted ideas. Fucking Gordon and his messiah complex. Fucking Gordon and his need to kill Sam.’ Dean’s going to rip him apart and see who he thinks the antichrist is then.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice is anxious, his eyes fixed on Dean like his brother has the answers to everything.
“It’s okay, Sammy.” There’s an itch under Dean’s skin, that itch that tells him it’s been too long since there was blood on his hands. Sam’s the only remedy, Sam or destruction. So what if Sam’s stupid big head lets him see the future. Sure, it’s a little weird but it’s just another scar to add to their collection.
He’s just put the t-shirt on but Dean doesn’t care, throws it in a heap on the floor. Mouth splitting into a grin, he pushes Sam back into the mattress. So no, Dean’s not going to hate his little brother for accurate prophecies and that word - ‘freak’ - it’s already used by meaningless men with badges to describe the Winchester brothers. What does it matter if they’re a little weirder than before?
“Dean?” Sam doesn’t fight against his brother, slides back under Dean’s weight. Still, he’s confused, wondering what has happened in the elder Winchester’s head. “What about Gordon?”
There’s a growl in Dean’s throat when he tongues Sam’s pulse-point, feels his brother’s life-force. There’s soft skin under his hands and his fingers dig into Sam’s hips, falling over old bruises. Sam’s breath hitches but he doesn’t protest. Instead he squirms upward, searching for that sweet contact.
“When Gordon comes, we’ll be ready for him.” Dean hisses in his brother’s ear, malicious intentions turning his voice toxic. “He won’t kill you, Sammy. I’ll rip him apart and piss on his pyre.” Sam huffs hot air across skin as his teeth graze Dean’s shoulder.
“Dean.” His name comes out half lost, a gasped breath between moans, exactly as it should always be said.
“We’ll kill them all, Sammy.” Teeth sink into Dean’s shoulder and in an instant he forgets the world.
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Sam’s pressed against his brother’s side, laughing at the burning wreckage in the rear-view. Just another man who took a wrong turn and ended up in front of the Winchesters. Just another man in the wrong place at the wrong time. A gun presses against Dean’s cheek and he can feel the hot metal light a fire over his skin. At the end, Sam’s finger twitches on the trigger and who knows if it’s loaded or not and who cares?
Beneath them the Impala growls and rumbles in time with Sam’s wild shouts. She shares in the exhilaration, in the aftermath of homicide. She’s the back chariot of death, the bearer of the end. They’ve crossed the country protected by her metal body. Neither of them knows where they are. Dean hasn’t looked at the map since... he can’t remember when. It doesn’t matter. They just want to be lost.
Carefully he strokes the Impala up another gear, listens to her pant and feels her lurch forward. They just want to be lost but they’re searching for their number. 51. It’s written on the back of Sam’s hand, carved there in black until the ink ran like blood into the lines of his skin. 51, Winchester kryptonite or siren song; Dean can’t decide if he wants to avoid it or take on the danger it threatens. Sam’s hair brushes against his chin, soft and feathery, catching on the light stubble there.
A hill climbs out of the darkness in front of them, steep incline leading up to the stars, leading up to Heaven. Dean shifts gear and urges the Impala onwards. The gun falls into his lap, Sam boring of the cold metal that will only ever be as warm as death. He pushes closer, somehow making the space between them smaller, asks where they’re going. Dean just shrugs and the Impala keeps reaching for the stars.
They get there eventually, the top of the world, a mountain in the middle of… somewhere. Dean parks the Impala there, in the middle of the road and tugs his brother out of the car. In front of them the world lays sleeping, lights bright in the dark like dot-to-dot puzzles across the magazine pages of Earth. They sit on the bonnet of the Impala and gaze out at the lights that mock the stars.
It’s the first thing he thinks of when his father comes to mind and Dean isn’t sure why the dead have slipped into his thoughts. Bottles on a fence like suspects in a line-up. Pick one, shoot it down. John’s telling him how to shoot, who to shoot, the what, when, and why. His Dad’s telling him that he’s a good boy, that’s he’s killed the monster, the creature prowling in the night. His Dad’s telling him he’s killed the bad guy.
It’s no wonder Dean has grown up twisted. His crooked teeth are lined red and set in a smile that won’t hold up in court. It’s no wonder he’s grown up to find he can’t pick out the criminal in the line up. The world’s tumbled into the grey area, lost it’s black and white. They’re not sure who’s bad or good so they kill everyone. Sam and Dean, brothers and butchers. The world’s their oyster and they’ll leave nothing but the shell.
On top of the world, Dean pulls his brother closer. He falls back against the windshield of the Impala and Sam leans over him, blocking out the stars. Dean presses his hand against Sam’s, marvels in the feel of skin against his and maybe, just maybe, he’s a little drunk. Empty beer cans litter the road, crunching metallic under car tyres. Sam leans down and whispers in Dean’s ear, tells him that they’re searching for number 51. Dean nods and bites along the line of Sam’s jaw, feels the itch under his skin for death.
Mary’s standing beside the Impala, a woman in white. Cars past through her as though she isn’t there and Dean supposes she isn’t really. Her eyes find his, glancing over his brother’s shoulder. A smile stretches her face, beautiful and perfect. Sam scrapes his teeth over Dean’s collarbone and Mary’s laughter fills his ears.
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It takes them two weeks to find it. Two weeks of a journey without an end. They’ve covered half of America driving on tar without names. Judging by the shape of the roads and the depth of conversation, Sam would say they’re in Arkansas. When they finally see a ‘vacancy’ sign, he takes the turn even if the buildings look like they might fall down if some sneezed hard enough. It’s two in the morning and they’ve been driving since five last night.
The empty reception’s flooded with dull blue light, giving the walls the sickly feel of some late night emergency room. A small gold bell sits on the counter and Dean takes it upon himself to ring the bell until Sam slaps his hand away. A ruffled, disgruntled man stumbles out of the back room eventually, blinking sleep from his eyes. Sam puts on his most winning grin, ignoring whatever it is Dean’s muttering under his breath.
“How can I help you?” The receptionist asks with that bored ease of repetition.
“Twin room please,” Sam replies and his eyes narrow when the man turns to the single set of keys left on the board behind him.
“You’re in luck,” the man says in a tired sales pitch. “There’s only one room left.” You can’t decide you don’t like this one, there aren’t any others. The words are implied. “Room 51.” Automatically Sam’s hand reaches out and grips his brother’s wrist. It’s not a denial or a refusal, not panic, just the understanding that they’ve found it. Room 51, the end of their journey.
“Sounds great,” Dean says in a voice of false cheer. He takes the keys before Sam can protest. Formalities pass and then they’re in the car park, away from the sickly blue room and the man who doesn’t give a shit. The Impala’s doors creak open as Dean pulls his bags out and Sam silently copies him. Words don’t pass between them, not yet. They have to understand first, know what will happen.
Room 51’s on the second storey of the complex and Sam can’t believe there are so many people desperate enough to fill the rooms of the paint-peeling building. He supposes Arkansas roads must be busy on... he doesn’t know what day it is. The numbers on the room door are gold metal and Sam remembers them so clearly, remembers the way they shined in the morning sunlight of his dream.
“We could leave.” The key’s in Dean’s hand, hovering near the lock but reluctant to slip in. He says the words quietly, not really meaning them, just wishing for a way out. Sam shakes his head, says they’ve come this far. There’s no point in running, not from this. Gordon’s going to catch up with them sooner or later. Dean pushes the key into the lock, the soft click of the tumblers rolling back reaching Sam’s ears. Silently he follows his brother into the room.
It’s disturbingly normal inside the room, standard twin, waiting for blood to paint the walls. Their shadows slink across the room, outlines lit from the lamps outside. Sam flicks the light-switch and the shadows are burnt away. He draws a breath, short and sharp. Everything’s exactly how he remembers from the dream. He turns to the bed closest to the door, the one they will sleep in so the sunlight wakes with warm fingers across the sheets. Dean will die there, has died there.
Hands move instinctively and Sam wraps his fingers tightly around the gun slid into the small of his back. It’s solid security, the safety blanket that he’s had since the day John promised him there were no monsters under his bed but there was something in his closet. Metal promises like a teddy bear to hold when the night was too dark to see through. Life with a .45. No wonder he’s grown up to be twisted out of shape.
They drop their bags on the table, take a shower, brush their teeth, and complete everyday rituals as if they’re going to sleep, as if everything’s alright. Sam’s holding his breath, or at least he thinks he is, waiting for the axe to fall, waiting for it to all unravel. The bed’s open and inviting, poised and expecting a tangle of limbs and skin and teeth. Dean sits at the table and starts to clean his favourite gun.
Sam knows his brother, has mapped out every inch of Dean’s body and explored every nook of his brain. He knows how he feels when even Dean isn’t sure and right now he’s nervous. Sam sits down next to him, pulls out his gun and borrows his brother’s cleaning kit. They drawn the curtains shut against the night so the only light they have comes from the bedside lamps. It’s a small orange glow, like a little fire frozen in time and trapped in glass. They’re just waiting, holding their breath.
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Morning comes with the rumble of engines in the parking lot and neither of them has said a word. They finished cleaning their guns hours ago and now they are simply sitting, simply being. Dean doesn’t dare to move, doesn’t dare to make a sound unless it all falls apart. His fingers are resting on the trigger and all his muscles are bunched, expanding and contracting in tense anticipation.
And there’s a shadow at the door. Sam’s on his feet instantly, soundless and Dean can’t help but be distracted admiring his brother, just for a second, just for a heartbeat. Then he’s standing too. They press themselves against the wall behind the door, listen to a key slide in the lock. Dean wonders if the receptionist’s still alive.
The door slams open and Sam’s almost caught by the doorknob smashing into the wall. Gordon’s in the doorway, gun pointed at the bed, their bed. He shoots before he realises it’s empty. In that deafening silence after the gunshot Dean steps forward. A smirk stretches across his face as he pushes the barrel of his gun into the back of Gordon’s neck.
“Make a move and you’re dead.”
Sam steps forward and rips the gun from Gordon’s hand. It’s easy, child’s play. Dean wants to laugh. All you need’s a brother with freaky dreams and you can cheat death. He looks to his brother and Sam grins, dimples creasing his cheeks.
The elbow hits him in the nose, breaks the bone. It’s so stupid of him, so stupid to think he could win that easily. Whiplash sends his head snapping backwards and there’s blood in his eyes. Flash of silver beyond and there’s a knife in Gordon’s hand. It’s all happening too fast, all falling apart at the seams and Dean doesn’t know how to hold it together.
There’s a sound, a scream perhaps, the shrieking cry of an animal in pain. Dean can’t see beyond the blood, can’t tell what’s going on and this is what it’s like, ship without anchor lost in a storm. Shapes moves towards him through the red mist, a figure, silver flashing in its hand. He doesn’t think, just raises his gun and fires.
Silence. Stillness. An empty, red wo
He wipes the blood away with the fabric of his shirt. Gordon’s on the floor in front of him, left eye missing, replaced by a bullet. Sam’s sitting on the edge of the bed, their bed, standard single meant for two. Mary’s crouched next to him, hands clasped as if God will save them. There’s blood, too much blood, colouring the sheets like it was always meant to be.
Sam!
Listless, weightless, Sam falls forward and Dean barely gets there in time, barely manages to hold his brother up. Mary’s screaming, somewhere Mary’s screaming.
Hey! Come here. Let me look at you.
He presses a hand to Sam’s back, feels the wound dug into his spine. Blood gushes against his hand and there’s so much - god, there’s so much blood.
Hey, look at me. It’s not even that bad. It’s not even that bad, all right? Sammy?
It’s then that he realises it, realises that his brother’s bleeding out in his arms and he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to save Sam.
We’re gonna patch you up okay? You’re gonna be good as new.
There are words coming out of his mouth, mixing with the screams. He didn’t notice until now but they’re filling the room, stuffing it full of uncertainty and panic and fear, god, Dean’s so afraid. He’s not sure how he’s still breathing.
I’m gonna take care of you. I’m gonna take care of you. That’s my job right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?
Sam’s head wobbles back and forth, listless like it doesn’t belong on his body. Dean digs his fingers into that long hair his brother would never cut. That long hair that wakes him in the morning, tickling his nose.
Sam? Sam!
His hand finds Sam’s face, thumb pressed where dimples should be, would be. His brother’s soft skin seems to break under his fingers but it’s just his hands slipping, slick with blood. The screaming doesn’t stop. Sam’s eyes close.
Sammy!
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| Part Six |