Tear Me Down: Part 2
Hey, kids! Sorry for the wait! Two weeks of dress rehearsals and then this past weekend was the show! Sold out all three days! :D Finally had a few days to work on this chapter ;) Warning, it’s a doozy, so be prepared. Thank you reviewers, you are amazing. Thank you guest reviewers, I wish I could answer you directly! And thank you a certain someone who PM’d me, knowing that you care and are counting on me means the world and I give you my heart! Happy reading!
Punkin
“Never go into a room without knowing what you’re walking into.” Dad’s hands are on my shoulders and he leans down to speak gruffly into my right ear. “Be aware of your surroundings, scope out the exits, look for potential threats.” He swallows; I stare ahead of me, my eyes darting about the darkness and the shapes of the empty grain factory.
I hear Sam sniffle behind me. Kid has a cold…again. I swear God gave him the worst immune system in the world. His nylon jacket squeaks as he burrows himself deeper into it. I frown…it’s freezing out here. Why doesn’t he have a heavier coat?
Dad’s fingers tighten; he senses my distraction. “What do you see, Dean?”
The hunt. Think about the hunt. It is what is important. I have to be ready.
Sam sniffles again, but I don’t think about it. “I see two back doors; one has a broken bolt lock so it probably leads outside. The other has a busted keypad, so it most likely leads to a control room or a storage area.”
Silence falls for a few seconds. Dad waits for me to continue. I chew on the inside of my cheek, the cold air burning inside my throat. “Half of the stairs to the walkway are missing and the shelving is upturned, so the only place someone could be hiding is behind the grain bins.”
“Or behind the door.” Sam helpfully interjects. There’s something in his voice. I can’t put my finger on it. Hope?
“Quiet Sam,” Dad snaps, “I asked Dean.”
I don’t have to turn around to picture my little brother’s face and inwardly cringe. After all, I had forgotten the door, which is really the first place to check. I lick my lips; trying to focus. “Enter, gun drawn, check behind the door,” I squash the guilt that gnaws at my insides and force myself to continue assertively, “stay to the right, below the catwalk, and pass by the staircase that way you have a place to take cover if someone open fires. Pause, listen, and then give the grain bins a wide berth. If someone is there, determine if they are armed and if you have the means to confront them. Keep an exit at your back at all times in case of the need for a quick getaway.”
I let out a deep breath and turn my head to look up at my father. He remains stoic for several seconds. At last, he beams warmly down at me, dark eyes proud, and pats the back of my shoulder blades. “Very good, Dean.”
Sam shifts his weight from foot to foot. He encounters my eyes before gazing down at his faded, red sneakers. Snow begins to filter from the clouds and the tiny flakes cling to his windswept hair. My grin melts away, and for a moment I am resentful.
“All right Ace, go ahead.” Dad tilts his ear towards the open doorway, inviting me to take the lead. Excitement boils within, my ribs tight against the layers of my undershirts. I nod seriously and move past him. Years of instincts arise and I quickly draw my weapon, step through the entry, and promptly determine that it is safe to enter further. I check my backside, imparting a curt nod, and Dad starts to follow. I hesitate, allowing my eyes to adjust, and smell the grit in the air. It’s old, moldy, and wet. I mean to continue on, anticipating the journey to the grain bins, but as I take a step forward, Sam suddenly seems to come to life.
“Dean, wait!”His hands tear from his pockets, hazel eyes wide. Fingers dig into my arm and he yanks me back several feet. I squawk in surprise, shrugging him angrily off.
“Sam, what the hell?!” I tower above him, observing his wan cheeks and bloodless lips.
“Dean, look,” he points down towards our feet.
My eyebrows grow heavy above my lashes and I slowly kneel to see what it is my brother is referring to. Then I catch a glimpse of it, glinting slightly in the overcast light. A miniscule string, stretched out across the length of the room.
“Tripwire,” I murmur.
Dad’s voice booms from behind us, his arms crossed. “Yes, a tripwire. Always, ALWAYS, clear a room of dangers, Dean, even if you can’t see them. You can’t get too cocky, son. One step and you’re dead. Your brother’s dead. Is that what you want?”
My molars dig into my tongue and my chest shrinks inward. Sam is still staring at me…waiting. What is he waiting for? I stare back. I stare back and imagine for a moment an explosion. An explosion that takes away everything important. I stare back and think about Sam melting away and not melting with him.
“Well, Dean? Is that what you want?” Dad persists belligerently, taking a step closer to us.
My eyes narrow and my jaw tightens, “No.” It escapes a cracked whisper.
He appraises me, as if taking note of my demeanor and attitude, as if determining if he successfully made his point and pushed a button deep inside me.
“No what?”
Sam sniffles again. I look back at him, all watery eyes and miserable posture. He shivers, expression concerned when I don’t answer right away. Methodically, I slip my gun into my jeans and slide off my leather coat. I drape it over my little brother’s shoulders and begin to steer him towards the Impala. Sam is bewildered. The manner he smiles softly at me makes everything in the universe worth it though.
We pause; the snow sweeps against the toes of my boots. I meet Dad’s shadowy orbs and resist the urge to decipher what he is feeling. Anger, confusion, I really don’t care.
“No, SIR.”
And we walk away.
“SAM!” I scream, and I am dropping something from my hands. I don’t know what I had been holding-but I do know that whatever it was is completely unimportant. Nothing matters. Nothing matters because there’s blood on my face that isn’t mine. It’s splattered on my neck. It sticks in my hair. It drips in my eyes.
I was so close.
I was inches. Inches that may have well as been light-years.
I know better. We both do. Dad had scared negligence out of us before we even knew how to spell the word. Well, maybe before I knew how…
I’d shoved him into it. I’d shoved my brother into the path of a shotgun.
Oh god…
“Sam! Hey, look at me, look at me, Sammy!” My hands catch in his button up before he is even all the way on the ground. His fall is slow, his eyes on me the entire time. He tries to talk, but his mouth opens and closes uselessly, as if he can’t get his body to do what he is telling it. The only thing that comes out is a mangled mess and the softest of whimpers.
I guide him to the floor, pulling his shoulders to rest against my thighs. His hands frantically tear at his chest, bathing them in his own life force, and I all too easily push them away. “Shh, Sam, stop trying to talk,” I choke, sure that his next attempt of my name is what is finally going to break me.
I’m broken already; the pieces left can’t be damaged too. At last, I get his shirt open and my heart stops. I knew it was going to be bad-that large a caliber of bullet at such close range? Sam’s lucky his entire chest cavity hadn’t been blown away. Blood pumps over my fingers and soaks my jeans. It’s sticky, warm, and thick.
Bile rises in the back of my throat, but I can’t seem to look away from my little brother’s ripped flesh and muscle. I think about what I can’t see, about the shattered ribs and damaged organs. I think about Dad. I think about yelling at Sam, about punching Sam. I think about the easiness of anger. “Is that what you want?” I think about me. I think about me without Sam.
“Well, Dean, is that what you want?”
“No!” I gasp, pressing my palms harshly over Sam’s wound. “No, you are NOT doing this, Sam. You hear me?”
Hazel eyes murky with pain gaze up at me, blood at the corner of his lips. I don’t think he can hear me, but I know he understands me. He is sad. He is apologizing again. I want to shake him. I want to hug him. I want to squeeze the life I am wasting down his throat, because what the hell do I need it for if he’s not going to be here?
“D’n,” He garbles.
Something burns in my eyes and clouds my vision. My throat closes up and I shake my head. “No,” it’s a whisper. An order. A plea. “No, Sammy.” I wrestle my phone from my pocket and dial 911. The conversation with the operator is long enough for me to bark information to her and toss the device aside. I have a little brother to hold together, to anchor down, to keep at my side because he’s not allowed to check out without my say so.
“Stay awake, kid. Just…just a bit longer. A bit longer and you’ll be as good as new.”
Sam blinks. His chest struggles to rise and his lungs rattle. He can’t be getting enough air. But what disturbs me the most is the fact that he isn’t even aware enough to panic about it. He’s drifting. He’s melting. He’s melting away beneath my hands and he’s leaving me behind.
“Sam? You hear me? I’m going to fix this. You’ll be ok.” The words feel empty.
Sam blinks again, eyes drooping. His head leans back against my waist, as if falling into craved comfort. “S’ry,” he sighs.
“Hey,” panic freezes my veins, “open you eyes. SAM!” I jostle him. “Open your god damn eyes!”
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move.
My hand grips his chin, turning his face towards my own. I’m begging now. “Sam? Sammy? Please...”
I think about me without Sam. I think about the world collapsing in on itself. I think about which one would be worse.
I think about which one feels as if it is happening right now.
TBC…
Punkin
“Never go into a room without knowing what you’re walking into.” Dad’s hands are on my shoulders and he leans down to speak gruffly into my right ear. “Be aware of your surroundings, scope out the exits, look for potential threats.” He swallows; I stare ahead of me, my eyes darting about the darkness and the shapes of the empty grain factory.
I hear Sam sniffle behind me. Kid has a cold…again. I swear God gave him the worst immune system in the world. His nylon jacket squeaks as he burrows himself deeper into it. I frown…it’s freezing out here. Why doesn’t he have a heavier coat?
Dad’s fingers tighten; he senses my distraction. “What do you see, Dean?”
The hunt. Think about the hunt. It is what is important. I have to be ready.
Sam sniffles again, but I don’t think about it. “I see two back doors; one has a broken bolt lock so it probably leads outside. The other has a busted keypad, so it most likely leads to a control room or a storage area.”
Silence falls for a few seconds. Dad waits for me to continue. I chew on the inside of my cheek, the cold air burning inside my throat. “Half of the stairs to the walkway are missing and the shelving is upturned, so the only place someone could be hiding is behind the grain bins.”
“Or behind the door.” Sam helpfully interjects. There’s something in his voice. I can’t put my finger on it. Hope?
“Quiet Sam,” Dad snaps, “I asked Dean.”
I don’t have to turn around to picture my little brother’s face and inwardly cringe. After all, I had forgotten the door, which is really the first place to check. I lick my lips; trying to focus. “Enter, gun drawn, check behind the door,” I squash the guilt that gnaws at my insides and force myself to continue assertively, “stay to the right, below the catwalk, and pass by the staircase that way you have a place to take cover if someone open fires. Pause, listen, and then give the grain bins a wide berth. If someone is there, determine if they are armed and if you have the means to confront them. Keep an exit at your back at all times in case of the need for a quick getaway.”
I let out a deep breath and turn my head to look up at my father. He remains stoic for several seconds. At last, he beams warmly down at me, dark eyes proud, and pats the back of my shoulder blades. “Very good, Dean.”
Sam shifts his weight from foot to foot. He encounters my eyes before gazing down at his faded, red sneakers. Snow begins to filter from the clouds and the tiny flakes cling to his windswept hair. My grin melts away, and for a moment I am resentful.
“All right Ace, go ahead.” Dad tilts his ear towards the open doorway, inviting me to take the lead. Excitement boils within, my ribs tight against the layers of my undershirts. I nod seriously and move past him. Years of instincts arise and I quickly draw my weapon, step through the entry, and promptly determine that it is safe to enter further. I check my backside, imparting a curt nod, and Dad starts to follow. I hesitate, allowing my eyes to adjust, and smell the grit in the air. It’s old, moldy, and wet. I mean to continue on, anticipating the journey to the grain bins, but as I take a step forward, Sam suddenly seems to come to life.
“Dean, wait!”His hands tear from his pockets, hazel eyes wide. Fingers dig into my arm and he yanks me back several feet. I squawk in surprise, shrugging him angrily off.
“Sam, what the hell?!” I tower above him, observing his wan cheeks and bloodless lips.
“Dean, look,” he points down towards our feet.
My eyebrows grow heavy above my lashes and I slowly kneel to see what it is my brother is referring to. Then I catch a glimpse of it, glinting slightly in the overcast light. A miniscule string, stretched out across the length of the room.
“Tripwire,” I murmur.
Dad’s voice booms from behind us, his arms crossed. “Yes, a tripwire. Always, ALWAYS, clear a room of dangers, Dean, even if you can’t see them. You can’t get too cocky, son. One step and you’re dead. Your brother’s dead. Is that what you want?”
My molars dig into my tongue and my chest shrinks inward. Sam is still staring at me…waiting. What is he waiting for? I stare back. I stare back and imagine for a moment an explosion. An explosion that takes away everything important. I stare back and think about Sam melting away and not melting with him.
“Well, Dean? Is that what you want?” Dad persists belligerently, taking a step closer to us.
My eyes narrow and my jaw tightens, “No.” It escapes a cracked whisper.
He appraises me, as if taking note of my demeanor and attitude, as if determining if he successfully made his point and pushed a button deep inside me.
“No what?”
Sam sniffles again. I look back at him, all watery eyes and miserable posture. He shivers, expression concerned when I don’t answer right away. Methodically, I slip my gun into my jeans and slide off my leather coat. I drape it over my little brother’s shoulders and begin to steer him towards the Impala. Sam is bewildered. The manner he smiles softly at me makes everything in the universe worth it though.
We pause; the snow sweeps against the toes of my boots. I meet Dad’s shadowy orbs and resist the urge to decipher what he is feeling. Anger, confusion, I really don’t care.
“No, SIR.”
And we walk away.
“SAM!” I scream, and I am dropping something from my hands. I don’t know what I had been holding-but I do know that whatever it was is completely unimportant. Nothing matters. Nothing matters because there’s blood on my face that isn’t mine. It’s splattered on my neck. It sticks in my hair. It drips in my eyes.
I was so close.
I was inches. Inches that may have well as been light-years.
I know better. We both do. Dad had scared negligence out of us before we even knew how to spell the word. Well, maybe before I knew how…
I’d shoved him into it. I’d shoved my brother into the path of a shotgun.
Oh god…
“Sam! Hey, look at me, look at me, Sammy!” My hands catch in his button up before he is even all the way on the ground. His fall is slow, his eyes on me the entire time. He tries to talk, but his mouth opens and closes uselessly, as if he can’t get his body to do what he is telling it. The only thing that comes out is a mangled mess and the softest of whimpers.
I guide him to the floor, pulling his shoulders to rest against my thighs. His hands frantically tear at his chest, bathing them in his own life force, and I all too easily push them away. “Shh, Sam, stop trying to talk,” I choke, sure that his next attempt of my name is what is finally going to break me.
I’m broken already; the pieces left can’t be damaged too. At last, I get his shirt open and my heart stops. I knew it was going to be bad-that large a caliber of bullet at such close range? Sam’s lucky his entire chest cavity hadn’t been blown away. Blood pumps over my fingers and soaks my jeans. It’s sticky, warm, and thick.
Bile rises in the back of my throat, but I can’t seem to look away from my little brother’s ripped flesh and muscle. I think about what I can’t see, about the shattered ribs and damaged organs. I think about Dad. I think about yelling at Sam, about punching Sam. I think about the easiness of anger. “Is that what you want?” I think about me. I think about me without Sam.
“Well, Dean, is that what you want?”
“No!” I gasp, pressing my palms harshly over Sam’s wound. “No, you are NOT doing this, Sam. You hear me?”
Hazel eyes murky with pain gaze up at me, blood at the corner of his lips. I don’t think he can hear me, but I know he understands me. He is sad. He is apologizing again. I want to shake him. I want to hug him. I want to squeeze the life I am wasting down his throat, because what the hell do I need it for if he’s not going to be here?
“D’n,” He garbles.
Something burns in my eyes and clouds my vision. My throat closes up and I shake my head. “No,” it’s a whisper. An order. A plea. “No, Sammy.” I wrestle my phone from my pocket and dial 911. The conversation with the operator is long enough for me to bark information to her and toss the device aside. I have a little brother to hold together, to anchor down, to keep at my side because he’s not allowed to check out without my say so.
“Stay awake, kid. Just…just a bit longer. A bit longer and you’ll be as good as new.”
Sam blinks. His chest struggles to rise and his lungs rattle. He can’t be getting enough air. But what disturbs me the most is the fact that he isn’t even aware enough to panic about it. He’s drifting. He’s melting. He’s melting away beneath my hands and he’s leaving me behind.
“Sam? You hear me? I’m going to fix this. You’ll be ok.” The words feel empty.
Sam blinks again, eyes drooping. His head leans back against my waist, as if falling into craved comfort. “S’ry,” he sighs.
“Hey,” panic freezes my veins, “open you eyes. SAM!” I jostle him. “Open your god damn eyes!”
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move.
My hand grips his chin, turning his face towards my own. I’m begging now. “Sam? Sammy? Please...”
I think about me without Sam. I think about the world collapsing in on itself. I think about which one would be worse.
I think about which one feels as if it is happening right now.
TBC…