The Other Son: Chapter Thirteen
Title: The Other Son
Author: revenant_scribe
Chapter Thirteen: VOLATILE
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, wincest, semi-spoilers for 1.18 'Something Wicked'. Violence!
A/N: There is no new Winchester being added into the mix here. This is definitely not one of those fics. Please leave a review! It keeps my muse happy and makes my day!!
Summary: Sam knows there are a lot of things about his father that he will never understand, or agree with -- the first and foremost being why John Winchester is so unnerved by his son's visions. It's why Sam goes alone to Fitchburg when images of the town's 'welcome' sign flash through his head while he's driving and leave him reeling for hours after. He's only looking for a hunt, but what he finds is about to turn Sam's entire world upside-down, and threaten its very foundations.
chapter thirteen | VOLATILE
Sam blinked his eyes open and looked around. The car was stopped - pulled to the curb at a gas station - and Dean was nowhere in sight. He twisted in his seat, peering through the back mirror until he could make-out Dean propping the door to the convenience store open with his back, both his hands holding large cups of coffee, and a white plastic bag hanging from one wrist. Sam twisted back around quickly, hoping he hadn’t been noticed, but the way Dean looked at him -- with a knowing gleam in his eye when he finally slid the door open told Sam that he’d been caught. He couldn’t help if he still worried; at least Dean had stopped teasing him about it.
“Is one of those for me?” he asked hopefully.
“Did you want a coffee?” Dean said. “I can go get you one.”
“Jerk,” Sam snarked, and snatched one of the large coffees from Dean’s hand.
Dean reached to start the car again and then paused. “Hey, you ever get the feeling that - I dunno - that someone’s watching you?”
Sam looked at Dean with a frown, but the way he was avoiding direct eye contact had Sam glancing nervously around the parking lot. “What are you sensing?”
“I dunno,” Dean said, shrugged it off. “It’s probably nothing.” He started the engine and the cassette player turned on -- blaring Metallica. Sam took a moment to wonder how he had fallen asleep with the music so loud, then he realized that it was just something he’d gotten used to - something that had changed since he’d been on the road with Dean, who needed the music loud sometimes to keep everything else out.
“Dean,” Sam hedged, but then cut himself off. Hunting had taught Sam one thing, and that was to absolutely and always trust his instincts, if Dean was sensing something then it was entirely possible that there was something there.
……………………………………….
They were between hunts. They hadn’t stayed more than five days in any one place - and that was only once when Sam hadn’t been able to really distinguish between a Wendigo and a Harpie - and so even if they had nowhere to go, Sam made sure they kept moving. Most days he could forget what they were running from, or that they were running at all - it felt like Dean had told him ‘yes’ instead of ‘no’ - easier to pretend that his life and Dean’s hadn’t taken an acute curve toward the more dangerous and less ordinary.
“Dude,” Dean said, peering out the passenger window at the sign towering above the parking lot that Sam had just pulled into. “A Motel 6? Are you kiddin’ me?”
“Don’t get fussy on me now.” Sam cut the engine and reached over into the glove compartment to pullout his gun, smiling a little when Dean’s legs dropped open in the seat without the man really thinking about it. “It’s the only thing around, anyway.”
“Just once,” Dean said. “I’d like to stay at the Ritz.” He slammed the door closed and met Sam at the trunk, pulled his bag up and slung it on his shoulder.
“Yeah. I’ll get right on that for you,” Sam said as he slammed the trunk closed.
“What? It’s not like you’re paying for these places.”
“Keep your voice down!”
“Dude, I totally whispered that!” Sam twisted a little so his duffel thumped Dean on the back and sent him stumbling forward. “You’re a pain in the ass!” Dean glowered a little. “I just wish …”
“What?” Sam prompted, turning around because Dean had stopped walking, was frowning and looking keenly down at the pavement in front of him. “What?” Sam repeated, crossing back to Dean’s side, and even glancing down at the bare pavement - he was maybe expecting to see that little ‘F’ design with the way Dean was staring, but there was nothing there, not even a stale piece of chewing gum. “Dean?”
“What?” Dean said. “I just -“ he frowned and shook his head. “Whatever, Man. Let’s get a room. I need to shower. That ghoul thing? Totally disgusting.”
“That was three days ago,” Sam said, he scanned the parking lot and then followed Dean.
“Yeah, and I’m still smelling that stench.”
“Well, maybe you should scrub behind your ears,” Sam teased, reaching forward and pinching Dean’s earlobe, wiggling it back-and-forth before Dean smacked his hand away. Dean was joking just like always, relaxed and flirtatious as they made it to the front desk, but that was the second time Dean had thought he felt something - sensed something - and Sam was growing increasingly concerned.
They dropped their stuff onto the bed and when Dean started heading directly towards the bathroom Sam reached out, snagged a finger in the back of Dean’s shirt and tugged him back. “What?”
“Hold on,” Sam said, pulled the neckline of the shirt down a bit and inspected the design - it was still there, bold black ink contrasting and blending against Dean’s sun-kissed skin. “Okay, go.”
“What, that was it?” Dean turned around and lifted an expectant eyebrow.
“What do you want me to do?” Sam questioned with a frown.
“I dunno,” Dean said innocently, he continued back to the bathroom, pulling the T-shirt over his head as he went and tossing it in the general direction of the corner. Before it even registered, Sam was following him. They collided at the door to the bathroom, Sam pressed to Dean’s back. “Yeah, I thought so.”
“What?” Sam asked innocently. Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head, turned to unzip Sam’s hoodie with one hand while the other twisted the shower on. “What?” Sam repeated, but his hands -- working to rid Dean of his remaining clothes -- gave him away.
…………………………………….
Sam took the wheel the next morning, his stomach full of blueberry pancakes and orange juice and some sausages he had stolen from Dean’s side order. He kept the music on, though it was at a bearable volume, and couldn’t stop smirking because Dean was sprawled in the passenger seat beside him, sunglasses on his face and mumbling about being kept-up at night.
“You loved it,” Sam said.
“I hate you.” Sam only laughed and gunned the engine. The road was entirely empty and the further he drove, the fewer buildings Sam could see, and finally Dean relaxed enough to sleep for a while - although he insisted that he was wide-awake until the last moment. Sam turned the music off and rolled the windows down and allowed himself to relax.
Passing through Topeka, Sam navigated streets from memory while Dean scanned newspapers. “How come ghosts don’t hunt interesting places - like the Grand Canyon? Why can’t something supernatural be a pain in the ass over there,” Dean said.
“Is that your way of saying that you want to go to the Grand Canyon?”
“I’m just sayin’,” Dean shrugged. “A few months back I’d never been anywhere outside of Fitchburg. And now I’ve been back-and-forth across the country, and up-and-down it, too, and it still doesn’t feel like I’ve really seen it.”
“Hey, we’ve seen places.”
“Yeah, the world’s largest ball of twine.”
“Second largest, actually,” Sam corrected idly.
“Do you ever hunt things in big cities?”
“Sometimes,” Sam said. “Not so often. Mostly it’s smaller places because big cities - I mean, weird stuff happens there, of course, but it’s harder to keep track of. A small town has a local paper, something weird happens; they generally talk about it, right? But a big place? Like New York? Suspicious disappearances and unsolved murders are pretty commonplace.” Sam glanced to the passenger seat and watched as Dean flipped to a different page and then folded the whole thing and pitched it into the back seat. He knew the signs - was more than familiar with them - Dean was getting increasingly restless as the days passed and Sam had no idea what it meant. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Dean said, sounded like he actually believed that, but Sam watched as hazel eyes darted from side-mirror to rear-view mirror and back again.
“You need to tell me what’s been going on with you.”
“Nothing!” Dean insisted. Sam huffed in frustration and put his flicker on, more than ready to sort-out whatever had been troubling Dean for the passed week. Dean sat-up in his seat, his hands flying to brace on the dash, despite the fact that Sam was driving at the speeding limit. “Don’t pull over!” he said, his voice almost panicked.
“Okay,” Sam said, genuinely concerned. He glanced in the rear-view, scanned the line of cars behind him but couldn’t see anything that struck him as odd. “Okay,” he soothed. “You really need to tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t know,” Dean said, his eyes shifting again. “I’ve had this feeling, like something was there - watching - y’know? But only sometimes, and it goes away so fast that I just think, maybe I’m paranoid - what with everything that’s been happening. It doesn’t feel like… I mean, the shtriga? I’m pretty sure I could recognize something like that if it crossed paths with me again.”
“So, you’re saying it’s not something supernatural?”
“I’m saying I don’t know what it is, but it doesn’t feel like that thing did.”
“Okay.” Sam glanced around again and tried to think clearly. “So, we’ve picked-up something.” He was thinking out loud, trying to go-over what their options were. “We’re not far from the Roadhouse. We’re gonna keep driving, okay? We’re not gonna stop. At least when we get to Ellen’s we’ll have some back-up, okay?”
“Dude, I’m not the one freaking-out here,” Dean said, but his expression was just serious enough that Sam knew that if Dean wasn’t freaking-out, he was at least pretty close to it.
……………………………….
As much as Sam wanted to drive straight to the Roadhouse it was impossible. For one, the impala’s gas situation became increasingly more pressing and Sam needed coffee if he was going to stay behind the wheel.
Sam was more than a little paranoid as he pulled into the gas station, but for once Dean said nothing. He sat in the car and waited while Sam filled it up, and they went-in to the store together - Dean to stop by the bathroom and pick-up coffees and something that could serve as dinner, and Sam to pay for gas. Nothing happened, and though Sam was looking, there was nothing remotely suspicious - except maybe them, because they were exhausted and high-strung and Sam nearly drew a gun when a pick-up pulling onto the lot and backfired.
Dean took the wheel for the second-leg, the car entirely silent because the music made them both itchy, and Sam couldn’t think of anything to say. He tried to run-through possibilities of what could be tracking them - mostly all he could picture was that possessed friend of Jim’s with his eyes black and rolling in his head as he said: “Our prize. Our weapon.” And then he had to fight-down the urge to hold onto Dean, because he hadn’t told the man that part yet, wasn’t sure how he could possibly say it - but that didn’t mean it didn’t still weigh on him.
It felt like he was holding his breath, and he was holding his gun that he’d taken out when they’d stopped hours back at the gas station - hadn’t been able to return it to the glove compartment. Seeing the Roadhouse - no matter how early in the morning it was - was the most welcome thing Sam had ever seen. “Okay,” Sam said, sitting forward and peering around the area - the sun was barely in the sky and the impala was the only car sitting out-front of the bar. “Take this,” he grabbed one of the other guns he kept in the back, just under the seat. “And this,” passed a wicked, curved hunting knife with a fine leather sheath over to Dean. “I know knives aren’t your thing, but it could come in handy, okay? I’m gonna go check it out in there, make sure everything’s okay.”
“Dude, no way,” Dean said. “We should go in together. I can help.”
“Ellen usually leaves a light on - I don’t see one. It could be a trap.”
“So you’re gonna go in by yourself?”
“It’s more important that you stay here, safe.”
Dean gave him a searching look. “There’s more that you’re not telling me, isn’t there?” Sam’s guilty glance was likely the only answer Dean needed. “Shit, Man,” he cursed rubbed a hand over his face and sat back. “Okay. So go in there and check it out. And then you will tell me everything you know about this, I mean it, Sam. I think I’ve been pretty cooperative, okay?”
“I promise,” Sam said, then nodded and slid out of the car. He opened the trunk and grabbed a sawed-off shotgun, tucking a blade and some holy water as well as a cross and a few other things that might come in handy in various pockets. As an added precaution, Sam pulled-out the salt and walked a slow circle around the entire car, not quite able to meet Dean’s eye as he did it, although he knew his lover was watching him. Finally, Sam slammed the trunk closed and jogged up the steps into the Roadhouse.
The lights above the bar were on but the rest of the Roadhouse was dark. Ash wasn’t anywhere in sight. It wasn’t entirely strange, it was very early morning, and it was entirely possible that Ellen and Jo were still asleep, that Ash had maybe passed-out in his room for once, or maybe Jo had found someone to herd the man back to his own room before he passed-out. Still, Ellen had ears like a fox, and she would have heard their car -- the impala wasn’t exactly a stealth vehicle -- and she knew to be looking-out for them because he and his dad had made calls before he had taken Dean and gone underground - just in case, just a precaution.
He headed to the door that separated the bar from Ellen’s residence, was reaching for the door when the first shot of pain lanced through his head. He stumbled, his shoulder thumping against the doorframe as he knotted his fingers in his hair and tried to breathe. He wanted to call for Dean but knew better -- knew he hadn’t made sure it was safe.
The next shot of pain through his head brought an accompanying image - of Dean holding the hunting knife Sam had just a moment ago placed in his hand. The look on his face wasn’t one Sam recognized, was one he would do anything to avoid seeing. Dark, cold, ruthless eyes and he was handling the knife like he’d been born to do it - as if it was an old friend.
Sam dropped to his knees and tried to call for Ellen but the pain was coming faster, a steady throb just as quick and unremitting as his own heartbeat, and with it were images - blood from that knife, and blood on Dean’s cheek and down his neck, washed away by tears that Sam had never seen the man shed - and the next was Dean on the floor, his back arching violently, his legs and arms spasming as he screamed - the agony was clear and Sam could hear the whispered words: “Please, please, please.” And then, heartbreakingly quiet and rasping: “Sam.” It wasn’t an episode, not anything that Sam had ever seen Dean endure before, and Sam suffered the pain along with him until he lay spent and aching on the ground, his head throbbing and not entirely able to stand.
Until a click registered in his head, and he felt the cool, familiar kiss of the barrel of a gun resting at the base of his skull. “We have to stop meeting like this, Sammy,” a husky, familiar voice sounded.
Sam almost cursed, should really had seen it coming. “Gordon.”
“Don’t get so excited,” Gordon taunted. “Come on, now. Stand-up. We’re gonna take a little drive, you and I.” Sam ducked and spun the moment he felt the pressure of the gun shift, but Gordon was expecting it, had Sam pinned before he could even get a strike-in. “Easy, there.”
“What have you done to Ellen?”
“Nothing,” Gordon said. “I’m not the bad guy, here, Sammy.”
“Don’t call me Sammy.” Gordon was tying Sam’s arms behind his back, had systematically picked all of Sam’s weapons out of his pockets and tossed them out of reach.
“You have to stop taking things so personally,” Gordon chided. “This really isn’t about you.” And then he thumped Sam on the back of the head with the butt of his gun and the pain was so much that Sam blacked-out.
…………………………………………….
Dean tried to sit still as he watched Sam disappear inside the bar. There was nothing and no one that he could see anywhere around. For a moment he could watch Sam’s shadow inside through the windows but then even that disappeared.
He counted minutes as he tapped his fingers, hummed ‘Enter Sandman’ under his breath and then started singing the words. Eight minutes went by and there was still no sign of Sam anywhere, and increasingly Dean’s sense that something was wrong - very wrong - clouded his thoughts.
He opened the car door and stepped outside, tucked the gun Sam had given him into the back of his pants but stopped just shy of crossing the salt ring. Sam had been worried, but more worried about Dean getting caught by whatever was tracking them. “Sam?” he called, but there wasn’t a sound. He paced a bit, and then figured that he had never played by the rules anyway and jogged through the salt ring, up the steps and into the bar, fully prepared to shoot whatever crossed his path. “Sammy?”
There wasn’t a sign of Sam anywhere, but Dean traced his fingertips across the bar, vague traces of drunken conversations that he really shouldn’t have been picking-up. He wished he could be more focussed, but Sam was missing, something was wrong. He reached for the door handle and caught a glimpse of Sam staggering with the effects of what could only be a vision, and of a man binding Sam’s wrists and dragging him away: “You think your boytoy can find you, Sammy?” the man asked.
“Goddammit, Sam,” Dean cursed as he pulled away from the door, and then pushed it open. There were three people tied-up pretty good, with duct-tape across their mouths and their eyes spitting fire. Two women, one of them young, and a guy with one hell of a mullet. Dean stepped back and let the door close, wondered if it was okay to talk to them, because Sam had seemed pretty determined to keep what they were doing quiet. Then he figured that Sam was gone, and also, he’d been coming here for a reason, and one of these people might be it. Dean pushed the door back open again and looked at them. Each one of them was looking at him like he was close to crazy - they weren’t far from right.
Under any other circumstances, Dean might have gone for the young blond first, cut her free and maybe flirted - but what Dean needed were answers and directions, and maybe some help and the one who seemed most capable in that regard was the other woman, he knelt at her hands and cut them loose, unbound her legs and then pulled the tape free. “You maybe know what the hell is going on here?”
“You’re Dean?”
“How could you know that?”
“Well, Sam was just here - I heard him calling. And John said that Sam was travelling with a Dean.”
“That’s me,” Dean said. “What happened? Where did that guy go?”
“You mean, Gordon?” She shrugged and shook her head, rubbed her wrists absently. “I don’t know. He was expecting you both, that’s about all I know. Had some kind of trap in mind for you, too.” Dean thought about that when he untied the others and pulled-off their gags. Then he rose to his feet and headed back to the car. “Where are you going?”
“To find Sam,” Dean said like she was crazy for asking, which, in his mind, she was.
“You’re not gonna find him,” the blond spoke-up. “Gordon’s a hunter, and a hell of a good one.”
“Maybe,” Dean said. “But you just said he was setting-up some kind of trap, so I’m thinking he wants to be found.”
“Regardless,” the older woman said, stepping forward and cocking a self-assured eyebrow at him. “You’re not gonna want to go walking into that all by yourself. You’re gonna need our help.”
“No offence, but I don’t play well with others,” Dean retorted. “Not to mention that I don’t even know who any of you are. You could all be part of the trap.”
“Ellen Harvelle,” the older woman said, extending a hand that Dean took reluctantly, relieved that he picked nothing up from the brief touch. “That’s my daughter Jo, and that there is Ash.”
“Hey,” Ash said. “So you’re Dean, huh?”
“What’s it to ya?” Dean asked sceptically. He wasn’t trusting any of these people until he had Sam back, Ellen kept looking at him weird, and Jo was flirting which - not that he wasn’t flattered, but he had more important things to be focussing on.
“Nuthin’,” Ash said. “But Gordon passed me this, said you’d know what to do with it.” He held-up a matchbook from the Roadhouse and shrugged.
“Don’t,” Ellen said when Dean reached for it.
“He left it for me, which means he wanted me to have it. Now, back-off, lady.”
“You’re a real pistol, aint’cha?” Ellen said, shaking her head a little. Dean snatched the matchbook and then winced because the image was very strong: a sort of lurking menace and the sign for Rose Motel - one that he and Sam had passed-by on their way over. “Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered - because the meaning was entirely clear. Whoever Gordon was, he knew what Dean was capable of. He couldn’t help feeling a little bit frustrated, wondered if Gordon was just another person who had figured-out what Dean could do and was all too quick to call him a Freak for it. But if it had gotten Sam hurt? Dean was in no way going to take things easy on the man.
……………………………………………
Sam was sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair, his legs tied to the legs of the chair and his arms pulled across the back in an awkward position, tied firmly. He didn’t have a knife on him, and his head felt as if it had been split apart with a rusted axe.
He cracked his eyes open and could make-out a dimly lit basement with cement walls and not much else besides Sam and his chair. Gordon was sitting on a wooden table, sharpening his knife calm as ever, and even smiled a little when Sam shifted - visibly awake. He was prepared to start yelling, throw questions and curses at the man, but his mouth was painfully gagged by a tightly knotted cloth and there wasn’t much of anything that Sam could do.
“Awake?” Gordon questioned as he slid off the table. “Just in time. It’s getting late, show’s about to start. He circled around the back of Sam’s chair. “Like I said, it’s nothing personal, Sam. You just have a habit of making bad friends - Dean being a prime example. Uh, now I know what you’re thinking,” Gordon cut-in. “But really my only concern is with the fact that you’re letting him walk around when clearly the demons are just waiting to get their hands on him - cause all kinds of nasty trouble for the rest of us.”
Sam shook his head, tried to wiggle free of the gag. “Hush now, stay real still,” Gordon said, held his knife-up, just enough of a threat to settle Sam down. “He’s trouble. Now, I know you think you’ve got it under control, but you just don’t know what he’s capable of. He seems all smiley and sweet right now, but he’s evil, Sam. I think you know that. I think you’ve seen glimpses of it - when he can’t entirely control his abilities.” Sam had seen Dean ready to strikeout when he was picking-up something from someone they were talking to that belied what they were saying. He had never seen Dean hurt anyone, except in self-defence.
“It’s not complicated, Sam. I think maybe you thought you and your daddy were the only one’s who’d overhear what the demons are planning, but you’re not. He’s the gateway to a whole lot of trouble. It’s easier this way.” Above them there was the creak of the floor and Gordon sat back, a pleased grin on his face. “There’s your boy now. I’m really sorry about this, Sam. But things are just safer this way.” Sam watched Gordon climb the stairs, knife in his hand and close the door, and then he started squirming, trying to find some way to work the ropes. It was hopeless, but Dean was up there strolling into a trap.
“Easy, boy,” Ellen’s voice crooned, and Sam immediately obeyed, craning his neck to see where she had climbed through one of the small basement windows. She crossed to his chair and pulled a knife from her shoe, sliced-off the gag and then told him to hush when he tried to call to alert Dean. “He knows, okay?”
“How?”
“Gordon set a trap for him, but from what I can tell, that boy is far from dim.”
“Come on, get these off of me.”
“Easy there,” Ellen said, her voice stern as she started cutting off the ropes. “What’s Gordon’s problem with you two anyway?”
“It’s not with me, it’s with Dean. He thinks he’s evil, or something.”
“He sounds like demon bait to me, but I don’t know about evil,” she muttered, moved from Sam’s wrists to his legs. “I was talking with your father.”
“Is my dad here?”
“No, Honey. Long gone,” she said. Above them the sound of a gunshot rang-out and Sam started squirming again until he was finally free. He didn’t wait for Ellen, sprang-up from his chair and ran for the stairs, knowing she was behind him but wanting nothing more than to get to Dean.
When they made it to the top of the stairs Sam was frozen on the sight that greeted them. Gordon was bruised and his lip and eyebrow were bleeding. He was on his knees and glaring, and Dean was glaring right back. “I’m not dangerous…” Dean was saying, hadn’t noticed Sam or Ellen; wasn’t seeing anything but Gordon. “You think I’m evil?” Dean asked, a sneer marring his face. “You have absolutely no idea.”
“Dean-“ Sam said, took a step forward, but Ellen grasped his arm, and they both watched as Dean reached both his hands forward and pressed his thumbs into the centre of Gordon’s forehead, his fingers wrapping around the sides of the other man’s head, and then Gordon was choking on a scream and flailing a little and bleeding from the cuts Dean had made. “Dean!” Sam said, because he had no idea what Dean was doing to Gordon, but it looked painful and violent and the vision was fresh in Sam’s mind. Even if the expression on Dean’s face was nowhere near as dark as the one in his vision had been, it was close enough that it made Sam nauseous to see.
“Sam, stay back,” Ellen cautioned, but Sam jerked his hand away, rushed to Dean’s side and pulled him close, tried to pull him away from Gordon, but couldn’t.
“Dean, come on. Come on, Dean, this isn’t you. This isn’t who you are.”
Dean blinked and then his body relaxed in Sam’s arms, his hands dropping back to his sides as Gordon collapsed onto the floor. “He needed to know,” Dean said.
“Okay, okay,” Sam said, sliding to the ground because Dean was giving him all his weight, and Sam still had a headache and was still reeling.
“He needed to know.”
“Know what, Dean?”
“I’m not … I’m not what he said. It’s the other way around,” Dean was mumbling, not quite coherently, but Sam got it. Dean - who maybe didn’t understand what Gordon meant when he said Dean was evil - was explaining the only way he knew Gordon could understand, that he was only misunderstood.
“That’s,” Sam said, looking back at Gordon, who was groaning and flopping about a bit like a fish washed-up on the sand. “That’s you?”
“Twenty-five years of being a freak,” Dean said, somewhat jokingly. “I might have some issues.” Sam laughed a little and pressed his lips to Dean’s temple. “Didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“I just don’t think he’s used to having other people’s memories pushed into his head,” Sam said.
“Bit of a surprise,” Dean said. “You okay?”
“I’m good, Dean. Real good.”
“You look like shit,” Dean was already standing-up, reaching out a hand to help Sam up.
“Thanks a lot,” Sam snarked. Ellen came forward until Sam was between her and Dean, his arms around both their shoulders. “Just a vision.”
“What should we do about him?” Ellen asked, and Sam was surprised to realize she was directing her question to Dean.
“Just leave him. He won’t come around again,” Dean said. “I think he gets it, now.” Sam hoped that Dean was right. He climbed into the back seat of Ellen’s pick-up and rested his head on Dean’s lap as she drove them all back to the Roadhouse.
“Ellen,” Sam said. “This is Dean.”
Ellen glanced into the rear-view, smiling a little and nodding. “Pleasure to meet you, Hon.” Sam managed a half-smile, twisted so he could see Dean’s face. Dean was sitting quietly staring out the side window, it didn’t seem as if he had heard any of their joking. His face was dark and thoughtful and Sam didn’t like the pinched brow or faraway eyes at all.
“Dean, what’s wrong?” he whispered.
“Nuthin’,” Dean said. And Sam was never more certain that it was anything else than right at that moment.
<< END CHAPTER >>
[MASTER POST]
Musicians Friend Coupon
Author: revenant_scribe
Chapter Thirteen: VOLATILE
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, wincest, semi-spoilers for 1.18 'Something Wicked'. Violence!
A/N: There is no new Winchester being added into the mix here. This is definitely not one of those fics. Please leave a review! It keeps my muse happy and makes my day!!
Summary: Sam knows there are a lot of things about his father that he will never understand, or agree with -- the first and foremost being why John Winchester is so unnerved by his son's visions. It's why Sam goes alone to Fitchburg when images of the town's 'welcome' sign flash through his head while he's driving and leave him reeling for hours after. He's only looking for a hunt, but what he finds is about to turn Sam's entire world upside-down, and threaten its very foundations.
chapter thirteen | VOLATILE
Sam blinked his eyes open and looked around. The car was stopped - pulled to the curb at a gas station - and Dean was nowhere in sight. He twisted in his seat, peering through the back mirror until he could make-out Dean propping the door to the convenience store open with his back, both his hands holding large cups of coffee, and a white plastic bag hanging from one wrist. Sam twisted back around quickly, hoping he hadn’t been noticed, but the way Dean looked at him -- with a knowing gleam in his eye when he finally slid the door open told Sam that he’d been caught. He couldn’t help if he still worried; at least Dean had stopped teasing him about it.
“Is one of those for me?” he asked hopefully.
“Did you want a coffee?” Dean said. “I can go get you one.”
“Jerk,” Sam snarked, and snatched one of the large coffees from Dean’s hand.
Dean reached to start the car again and then paused. “Hey, you ever get the feeling that - I dunno - that someone’s watching you?”
Sam looked at Dean with a frown, but the way he was avoiding direct eye contact had Sam glancing nervously around the parking lot. “What are you sensing?”
“I dunno,” Dean said, shrugged it off. “It’s probably nothing.” He started the engine and the cassette player turned on -- blaring Metallica. Sam took a moment to wonder how he had fallen asleep with the music so loud, then he realized that it was just something he’d gotten used to - something that had changed since he’d been on the road with Dean, who needed the music loud sometimes to keep everything else out.
“Dean,” Sam hedged, but then cut himself off. Hunting had taught Sam one thing, and that was to absolutely and always trust his instincts, if Dean was sensing something then it was entirely possible that there was something there.
……………………………………….
They were between hunts. They hadn’t stayed more than five days in any one place - and that was only once when Sam hadn’t been able to really distinguish between a Wendigo and a Harpie - and so even if they had nowhere to go, Sam made sure they kept moving. Most days he could forget what they were running from, or that they were running at all - it felt like Dean had told him ‘yes’ instead of ‘no’ - easier to pretend that his life and Dean’s hadn’t taken an acute curve toward the more dangerous and less ordinary.
“Dude,” Dean said, peering out the passenger window at the sign towering above the parking lot that Sam had just pulled into. “A Motel 6? Are you kiddin’ me?”
“Don’t get fussy on me now.” Sam cut the engine and reached over into the glove compartment to pullout his gun, smiling a little when Dean’s legs dropped open in the seat without the man really thinking about it. “It’s the only thing around, anyway.”
“Just once,” Dean said. “I’d like to stay at the Ritz.” He slammed the door closed and met Sam at the trunk, pulled his bag up and slung it on his shoulder.
“Yeah. I’ll get right on that for you,” Sam said as he slammed the trunk closed.
“What? It’s not like you’re paying for these places.”
“Keep your voice down!”
“Dude, I totally whispered that!” Sam twisted a little so his duffel thumped Dean on the back and sent him stumbling forward. “You’re a pain in the ass!” Dean glowered a little. “I just wish …”
“What?” Sam prompted, turning around because Dean had stopped walking, was frowning and looking keenly down at the pavement in front of him. “What?” Sam repeated, crossing back to Dean’s side, and even glancing down at the bare pavement - he was maybe expecting to see that little ‘F’ design with the way Dean was staring, but there was nothing there, not even a stale piece of chewing gum. “Dean?”
“What?” Dean said. “I just -“ he frowned and shook his head. “Whatever, Man. Let’s get a room. I need to shower. That ghoul thing? Totally disgusting.”
“That was three days ago,” Sam said, he scanned the parking lot and then followed Dean.
“Yeah, and I’m still smelling that stench.”
“Well, maybe you should scrub behind your ears,” Sam teased, reaching forward and pinching Dean’s earlobe, wiggling it back-and-forth before Dean smacked his hand away. Dean was joking just like always, relaxed and flirtatious as they made it to the front desk, but that was the second time Dean had thought he felt something - sensed something - and Sam was growing increasingly concerned.
They dropped their stuff onto the bed and when Dean started heading directly towards the bathroom Sam reached out, snagged a finger in the back of Dean’s shirt and tugged him back. “What?”
“Hold on,” Sam said, pulled the neckline of the shirt down a bit and inspected the design - it was still there, bold black ink contrasting and blending against Dean’s sun-kissed skin. “Okay, go.”
“What, that was it?” Dean turned around and lifted an expectant eyebrow.
“What do you want me to do?” Sam questioned with a frown.
“I dunno,” Dean said innocently, he continued back to the bathroom, pulling the T-shirt over his head as he went and tossing it in the general direction of the corner. Before it even registered, Sam was following him. They collided at the door to the bathroom, Sam pressed to Dean’s back. “Yeah, I thought so.”
“What?” Sam asked innocently. Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head, turned to unzip Sam’s hoodie with one hand while the other twisted the shower on. “What?” Sam repeated, but his hands -- working to rid Dean of his remaining clothes -- gave him away.
…………………………………….
Sam took the wheel the next morning, his stomach full of blueberry pancakes and orange juice and some sausages he had stolen from Dean’s side order. He kept the music on, though it was at a bearable volume, and couldn’t stop smirking because Dean was sprawled in the passenger seat beside him, sunglasses on his face and mumbling about being kept-up at night.
“You loved it,” Sam said.
“I hate you.” Sam only laughed and gunned the engine. The road was entirely empty and the further he drove, the fewer buildings Sam could see, and finally Dean relaxed enough to sleep for a while - although he insisted that he was wide-awake until the last moment. Sam turned the music off and rolled the windows down and allowed himself to relax.
Passing through Topeka, Sam navigated streets from memory while Dean scanned newspapers. “How come ghosts don’t hunt interesting places - like the Grand Canyon? Why can’t something supernatural be a pain in the ass over there,” Dean said.
“Is that your way of saying that you want to go to the Grand Canyon?”
“I’m just sayin’,” Dean shrugged. “A few months back I’d never been anywhere outside of Fitchburg. And now I’ve been back-and-forth across the country, and up-and-down it, too, and it still doesn’t feel like I’ve really seen it.”
“Hey, we’ve seen places.”
“Yeah, the world’s largest ball of twine.”
“Second largest, actually,” Sam corrected idly.
“Do you ever hunt things in big cities?”
“Sometimes,” Sam said. “Not so often. Mostly it’s smaller places because big cities - I mean, weird stuff happens there, of course, but it’s harder to keep track of. A small town has a local paper, something weird happens; they generally talk about it, right? But a big place? Like New York? Suspicious disappearances and unsolved murders are pretty commonplace.” Sam glanced to the passenger seat and watched as Dean flipped to a different page and then folded the whole thing and pitched it into the back seat. He knew the signs - was more than familiar with them - Dean was getting increasingly restless as the days passed and Sam had no idea what it meant. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Dean said, sounded like he actually believed that, but Sam watched as hazel eyes darted from side-mirror to rear-view mirror and back again.
“You need to tell me what’s been going on with you.”
“Nothing!” Dean insisted. Sam huffed in frustration and put his flicker on, more than ready to sort-out whatever had been troubling Dean for the passed week. Dean sat-up in his seat, his hands flying to brace on the dash, despite the fact that Sam was driving at the speeding limit. “Don’t pull over!” he said, his voice almost panicked.
“Okay,” Sam said, genuinely concerned. He glanced in the rear-view, scanned the line of cars behind him but couldn’t see anything that struck him as odd. “Okay,” he soothed. “You really need to tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t know,” Dean said, his eyes shifting again. “I’ve had this feeling, like something was there - watching - y’know? But only sometimes, and it goes away so fast that I just think, maybe I’m paranoid - what with everything that’s been happening. It doesn’t feel like… I mean, the shtriga? I’m pretty sure I could recognize something like that if it crossed paths with me again.”
“So, you’re saying it’s not something supernatural?”
“I’m saying I don’t know what it is, but it doesn’t feel like that thing did.”
“Okay.” Sam glanced around again and tried to think clearly. “So, we’ve picked-up something.” He was thinking out loud, trying to go-over what their options were. “We’re not far from the Roadhouse. We’re gonna keep driving, okay? We’re not gonna stop. At least when we get to Ellen’s we’ll have some back-up, okay?”
“Dude, I’m not the one freaking-out here,” Dean said, but his expression was just serious enough that Sam knew that if Dean wasn’t freaking-out, he was at least pretty close to it.
……………………………….
As much as Sam wanted to drive straight to the Roadhouse it was impossible. For one, the impala’s gas situation became increasingly more pressing and Sam needed coffee if he was going to stay behind the wheel.
Sam was more than a little paranoid as he pulled into the gas station, but for once Dean said nothing. He sat in the car and waited while Sam filled it up, and they went-in to the store together - Dean to stop by the bathroom and pick-up coffees and something that could serve as dinner, and Sam to pay for gas. Nothing happened, and though Sam was looking, there was nothing remotely suspicious - except maybe them, because they were exhausted and high-strung and Sam nearly drew a gun when a pick-up pulling onto the lot and backfired.
Dean took the wheel for the second-leg, the car entirely silent because the music made them both itchy, and Sam couldn’t think of anything to say. He tried to run-through possibilities of what could be tracking them - mostly all he could picture was that possessed friend of Jim’s with his eyes black and rolling in his head as he said: “Our prize. Our weapon.” And then he had to fight-down the urge to hold onto Dean, because he hadn’t told the man that part yet, wasn’t sure how he could possibly say it - but that didn’t mean it didn’t still weigh on him.
It felt like he was holding his breath, and he was holding his gun that he’d taken out when they’d stopped hours back at the gas station - hadn’t been able to return it to the glove compartment. Seeing the Roadhouse - no matter how early in the morning it was - was the most welcome thing Sam had ever seen. “Okay,” Sam said, sitting forward and peering around the area - the sun was barely in the sky and the impala was the only car sitting out-front of the bar. “Take this,” he grabbed one of the other guns he kept in the back, just under the seat. “And this,” passed a wicked, curved hunting knife with a fine leather sheath over to Dean. “I know knives aren’t your thing, but it could come in handy, okay? I’m gonna go check it out in there, make sure everything’s okay.”
“Dude, no way,” Dean said. “We should go in together. I can help.”
“Ellen usually leaves a light on - I don’t see one. It could be a trap.”
“So you’re gonna go in by yourself?”
“It’s more important that you stay here, safe.”
Dean gave him a searching look. “There’s more that you’re not telling me, isn’t there?” Sam’s guilty glance was likely the only answer Dean needed. “Shit, Man,” he cursed rubbed a hand over his face and sat back. “Okay. So go in there and check it out. And then you will tell me everything you know about this, I mean it, Sam. I think I’ve been pretty cooperative, okay?”
“I promise,” Sam said, then nodded and slid out of the car. He opened the trunk and grabbed a sawed-off shotgun, tucking a blade and some holy water as well as a cross and a few other things that might come in handy in various pockets. As an added precaution, Sam pulled-out the salt and walked a slow circle around the entire car, not quite able to meet Dean’s eye as he did it, although he knew his lover was watching him. Finally, Sam slammed the trunk closed and jogged up the steps into the Roadhouse.
The lights above the bar were on but the rest of the Roadhouse was dark. Ash wasn’t anywhere in sight. It wasn’t entirely strange, it was very early morning, and it was entirely possible that Ellen and Jo were still asleep, that Ash had maybe passed-out in his room for once, or maybe Jo had found someone to herd the man back to his own room before he passed-out. Still, Ellen had ears like a fox, and she would have heard their car -- the impala wasn’t exactly a stealth vehicle -- and she knew to be looking-out for them because he and his dad had made calls before he had taken Dean and gone underground - just in case, just a precaution.
He headed to the door that separated the bar from Ellen’s residence, was reaching for the door when the first shot of pain lanced through his head. He stumbled, his shoulder thumping against the doorframe as he knotted his fingers in his hair and tried to breathe. He wanted to call for Dean but knew better -- knew he hadn’t made sure it was safe.
The next shot of pain through his head brought an accompanying image - of Dean holding the hunting knife Sam had just a moment ago placed in his hand. The look on his face wasn’t one Sam recognized, was one he would do anything to avoid seeing. Dark, cold, ruthless eyes and he was handling the knife like he’d been born to do it - as if it was an old friend.
Sam dropped to his knees and tried to call for Ellen but the pain was coming faster, a steady throb just as quick and unremitting as his own heartbeat, and with it were images - blood from that knife, and blood on Dean’s cheek and down his neck, washed away by tears that Sam had never seen the man shed - and the next was Dean on the floor, his back arching violently, his legs and arms spasming as he screamed - the agony was clear and Sam could hear the whispered words: “Please, please, please.” And then, heartbreakingly quiet and rasping: “Sam.” It wasn’t an episode, not anything that Sam had ever seen Dean endure before, and Sam suffered the pain along with him until he lay spent and aching on the ground, his head throbbing and not entirely able to stand.
Until a click registered in his head, and he felt the cool, familiar kiss of the barrel of a gun resting at the base of his skull. “We have to stop meeting like this, Sammy,” a husky, familiar voice sounded.
Sam almost cursed, should really had seen it coming. “Gordon.”
“Don’t get so excited,” Gordon taunted. “Come on, now. Stand-up. We’re gonna take a little drive, you and I.” Sam ducked and spun the moment he felt the pressure of the gun shift, but Gordon was expecting it, had Sam pinned before he could even get a strike-in. “Easy, there.”
“What have you done to Ellen?”
“Nothing,” Gordon said. “I’m not the bad guy, here, Sammy.”
“Don’t call me Sammy.” Gordon was tying Sam’s arms behind his back, had systematically picked all of Sam’s weapons out of his pockets and tossed them out of reach.
“You have to stop taking things so personally,” Gordon chided. “This really isn’t about you.” And then he thumped Sam on the back of the head with the butt of his gun and the pain was so much that Sam blacked-out.
…………………………………………….
Dean tried to sit still as he watched Sam disappear inside the bar. There was nothing and no one that he could see anywhere around. For a moment he could watch Sam’s shadow inside through the windows but then even that disappeared.
He counted minutes as he tapped his fingers, hummed ‘Enter Sandman’ under his breath and then started singing the words. Eight minutes went by and there was still no sign of Sam anywhere, and increasingly Dean’s sense that something was wrong - very wrong - clouded his thoughts.
He opened the car door and stepped outside, tucked the gun Sam had given him into the back of his pants but stopped just shy of crossing the salt ring. Sam had been worried, but more worried about Dean getting caught by whatever was tracking them. “Sam?” he called, but there wasn’t a sound. He paced a bit, and then figured that he had never played by the rules anyway and jogged through the salt ring, up the steps and into the bar, fully prepared to shoot whatever crossed his path. “Sammy?”
There wasn’t a sign of Sam anywhere, but Dean traced his fingertips across the bar, vague traces of drunken conversations that he really shouldn’t have been picking-up. He wished he could be more focussed, but Sam was missing, something was wrong. He reached for the door handle and caught a glimpse of Sam staggering with the effects of what could only be a vision, and of a man binding Sam’s wrists and dragging him away: “You think your boytoy can find you, Sammy?” the man asked.
“Goddammit, Sam,” Dean cursed as he pulled away from the door, and then pushed it open. There were three people tied-up pretty good, with duct-tape across their mouths and their eyes spitting fire. Two women, one of them young, and a guy with one hell of a mullet. Dean stepped back and let the door close, wondered if it was okay to talk to them, because Sam had seemed pretty determined to keep what they were doing quiet. Then he figured that Sam was gone, and also, he’d been coming here for a reason, and one of these people might be it. Dean pushed the door back open again and looked at them. Each one of them was looking at him like he was close to crazy - they weren’t far from right.
Under any other circumstances, Dean might have gone for the young blond first, cut her free and maybe flirted - but what Dean needed were answers and directions, and maybe some help and the one who seemed most capable in that regard was the other woman, he knelt at her hands and cut them loose, unbound her legs and then pulled the tape free. “You maybe know what the hell is going on here?”
“You’re Dean?”
“How could you know that?”
“Well, Sam was just here - I heard him calling. And John said that Sam was travelling with a Dean.”
“That’s me,” Dean said. “What happened? Where did that guy go?”
“You mean, Gordon?” She shrugged and shook her head, rubbed her wrists absently. “I don’t know. He was expecting you both, that’s about all I know. Had some kind of trap in mind for you, too.” Dean thought about that when he untied the others and pulled-off their gags. Then he rose to his feet and headed back to the car. “Where are you going?”
“To find Sam,” Dean said like she was crazy for asking, which, in his mind, she was.
“You’re not gonna find him,” the blond spoke-up. “Gordon’s a hunter, and a hell of a good one.”
“Maybe,” Dean said. “But you just said he was setting-up some kind of trap, so I’m thinking he wants to be found.”
“Regardless,” the older woman said, stepping forward and cocking a self-assured eyebrow at him. “You’re not gonna want to go walking into that all by yourself. You’re gonna need our help.”
“No offence, but I don’t play well with others,” Dean retorted. “Not to mention that I don’t even know who any of you are. You could all be part of the trap.”
“Ellen Harvelle,” the older woman said, extending a hand that Dean took reluctantly, relieved that he picked nothing up from the brief touch. “That’s my daughter Jo, and that there is Ash.”
“Hey,” Ash said. “So you’re Dean, huh?”
“What’s it to ya?” Dean asked sceptically. He wasn’t trusting any of these people until he had Sam back, Ellen kept looking at him weird, and Jo was flirting which - not that he wasn’t flattered, but he had more important things to be focussing on.
“Nuthin’,” Ash said. “But Gordon passed me this, said you’d know what to do with it.” He held-up a matchbook from the Roadhouse and shrugged.
“Don’t,” Ellen said when Dean reached for it.
“He left it for me, which means he wanted me to have it. Now, back-off, lady.”
“You’re a real pistol, aint’cha?” Ellen said, shaking her head a little. Dean snatched the matchbook and then winced because the image was very strong: a sort of lurking menace and the sign for Rose Motel - one that he and Sam had passed-by on their way over. “Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered - because the meaning was entirely clear. Whoever Gordon was, he knew what Dean was capable of. He couldn’t help feeling a little bit frustrated, wondered if Gordon was just another person who had figured-out what Dean could do and was all too quick to call him a Freak for it. But if it had gotten Sam hurt? Dean was in no way going to take things easy on the man.
……………………………………………
Sam was sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair, his legs tied to the legs of the chair and his arms pulled across the back in an awkward position, tied firmly. He didn’t have a knife on him, and his head felt as if it had been split apart with a rusted axe.
He cracked his eyes open and could make-out a dimly lit basement with cement walls and not much else besides Sam and his chair. Gordon was sitting on a wooden table, sharpening his knife calm as ever, and even smiled a little when Sam shifted - visibly awake. He was prepared to start yelling, throw questions and curses at the man, but his mouth was painfully gagged by a tightly knotted cloth and there wasn’t much of anything that Sam could do.
“Awake?” Gordon questioned as he slid off the table. “Just in time. It’s getting late, show’s about to start. He circled around the back of Sam’s chair. “Like I said, it’s nothing personal, Sam. You just have a habit of making bad friends - Dean being a prime example. Uh, now I know what you’re thinking,” Gordon cut-in. “But really my only concern is with the fact that you’re letting him walk around when clearly the demons are just waiting to get their hands on him - cause all kinds of nasty trouble for the rest of us.”
Sam shook his head, tried to wiggle free of the gag. “Hush now, stay real still,” Gordon said, held his knife-up, just enough of a threat to settle Sam down. “He’s trouble. Now, I know you think you’ve got it under control, but you just don’t know what he’s capable of. He seems all smiley and sweet right now, but he’s evil, Sam. I think you know that. I think you’ve seen glimpses of it - when he can’t entirely control his abilities.” Sam had seen Dean ready to strikeout when he was picking-up something from someone they were talking to that belied what they were saying. He had never seen Dean hurt anyone, except in self-defence.
“It’s not complicated, Sam. I think maybe you thought you and your daddy were the only one’s who’d overhear what the demons are planning, but you’re not. He’s the gateway to a whole lot of trouble. It’s easier this way.” Above them there was the creak of the floor and Gordon sat back, a pleased grin on his face. “There’s your boy now. I’m really sorry about this, Sam. But things are just safer this way.” Sam watched Gordon climb the stairs, knife in his hand and close the door, and then he started squirming, trying to find some way to work the ropes. It was hopeless, but Dean was up there strolling into a trap.
“Easy, boy,” Ellen’s voice crooned, and Sam immediately obeyed, craning his neck to see where she had climbed through one of the small basement windows. She crossed to his chair and pulled a knife from her shoe, sliced-off the gag and then told him to hush when he tried to call to alert Dean. “He knows, okay?”
“How?”
“Gordon set a trap for him, but from what I can tell, that boy is far from dim.”
“Come on, get these off of me.”
“Easy there,” Ellen said, her voice stern as she started cutting off the ropes. “What’s Gordon’s problem with you two anyway?”
“It’s not with me, it’s with Dean. He thinks he’s evil, or something.”
“He sounds like demon bait to me, but I don’t know about evil,” she muttered, moved from Sam’s wrists to his legs. “I was talking with your father.”
“Is my dad here?”
“No, Honey. Long gone,” she said. Above them the sound of a gunshot rang-out and Sam started squirming again until he was finally free. He didn’t wait for Ellen, sprang-up from his chair and ran for the stairs, knowing she was behind him but wanting nothing more than to get to Dean.
When they made it to the top of the stairs Sam was frozen on the sight that greeted them. Gordon was bruised and his lip and eyebrow were bleeding. He was on his knees and glaring, and Dean was glaring right back. “I’m not dangerous…” Dean was saying, hadn’t noticed Sam or Ellen; wasn’t seeing anything but Gordon. “You think I’m evil?” Dean asked, a sneer marring his face. “You have absolutely no idea.”
“Dean-“ Sam said, took a step forward, but Ellen grasped his arm, and they both watched as Dean reached both his hands forward and pressed his thumbs into the centre of Gordon’s forehead, his fingers wrapping around the sides of the other man’s head, and then Gordon was choking on a scream and flailing a little and bleeding from the cuts Dean had made. “Dean!” Sam said, because he had no idea what Dean was doing to Gordon, but it looked painful and violent and the vision was fresh in Sam’s mind. Even if the expression on Dean’s face was nowhere near as dark as the one in his vision had been, it was close enough that it made Sam nauseous to see.
“Sam, stay back,” Ellen cautioned, but Sam jerked his hand away, rushed to Dean’s side and pulled him close, tried to pull him away from Gordon, but couldn’t.
“Dean, come on. Come on, Dean, this isn’t you. This isn’t who you are.”
Dean blinked and then his body relaxed in Sam’s arms, his hands dropping back to his sides as Gordon collapsed onto the floor. “He needed to know,” Dean said.
“Okay, okay,” Sam said, sliding to the ground because Dean was giving him all his weight, and Sam still had a headache and was still reeling.
“He needed to know.”
“Know what, Dean?”
“I’m not … I’m not what he said. It’s the other way around,” Dean was mumbling, not quite coherently, but Sam got it. Dean - who maybe didn’t understand what Gordon meant when he said Dean was evil - was explaining the only way he knew Gordon could understand, that he was only misunderstood.
“That’s,” Sam said, looking back at Gordon, who was groaning and flopping about a bit like a fish washed-up on the sand. “That’s you?”
“Twenty-five years of being a freak,” Dean said, somewhat jokingly. “I might have some issues.” Sam laughed a little and pressed his lips to Dean’s temple. “Didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“I just don’t think he’s used to having other people’s memories pushed into his head,” Sam said.
“Bit of a surprise,” Dean said. “You okay?”
“I’m good, Dean. Real good.”
“You look like shit,” Dean was already standing-up, reaching out a hand to help Sam up.
“Thanks a lot,” Sam snarked. Ellen came forward until Sam was between her and Dean, his arms around both their shoulders. “Just a vision.”
“What should we do about him?” Ellen asked, and Sam was surprised to realize she was directing her question to Dean.
“Just leave him. He won’t come around again,” Dean said. “I think he gets it, now.” Sam hoped that Dean was right. He climbed into the back seat of Ellen’s pick-up and rested his head on Dean’s lap as she drove them all back to the Roadhouse.
“Ellen,” Sam said. “This is Dean.”
Ellen glanced into the rear-view, smiling a little and nodding. “Pleasure to meet you, Hon.” Sam managed a half-smile, twisted so he could see Dean’s face. Dean was sitting quietly staring out the side window, it didn’t seem as if he had heard any of their joking. His face was dark and thoughtful and Sam didn’t like the pinched brow or faraway eyes at all.
“Dean, what’s wrong?” he whispered.
“Nuthin’,” Dean said. And Sam was never more certain that it was anything else than right at that moment.
<< END CHAPTER >>
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