Because of Houdini 6/?
WARNING: Parts of this chapter are kind of... icky. We're also about to veer sharply out of Canonville :D
Note: Thank you pixymisa for writing me porn making an awesome demand suggestion for this chapter. BRILLIANT I SAY!
PART SIX
First it was all dark like a sleep you couldn't wake from. It was okay. It was being simple and left alone. There was still the rustling of the trees and the purring of the freeway and the flushing of water but it was black. He doesn't know how long it went on, how long it was blackness and purring and rustling. He had a feeling time wasn't important anymore.
There was despair. There was something missing that hurt. There was something ripped away but he didn't know what.
Then there was jealousy and something else that felt familiar. He discovered that the familiarity was something he could follow. He could find it in the darkness, follow it, wrap himself around it.
So that's what he did, and then he was moving.
***
The nebulizer and the IV pole and the oxygen concentrator are gone. The sheet they'd used to protect Dean from the apparently asthma-inducing sofa is folded neatly and thrown over the back of the couch. The colony of pill bottles has disappeared from the kitchen and coffee tables. The dishes are washed and stacked neatly in the rack.
Jess hates to admit it but it's like someone opened the windows to let a warm, sweet smelling cross breeze in. She shouldn't be so relieved.
She is so evil.
But she hadn't realized until she'd stepped back into the outside world how difficult it was to be surround by illness, by Sam's frantic energy. The brothers seemed mostly nonchalant and accustomed to the whole business but when Dean was suffering Sam suffered right along with him and too much, too much was going on that she just didn't understand.
But that's over. She takes a deep breath and allows herself to smile. She has her place back, her boyfriend back. She can figure things out with Sam. They can work it out. And they can have Dean over again and do it right-- make plans, take him to dinner, show him around campus.
Next time. It'll all be fine.
She peaks in their bedroom and smiles at the great big snoring body in the bed, his face hidden in the nest of pillows, hands fisted over his head like a baby would sleep. Her heart floods with affection she hasn't felt in days.
She sits down and pokes him in the side. He doesn't move, just keeps snoring, which is weird--not just weird-- wrong. Sam has always been a light sleeper, a bad sleeper.
"Baby?" She taps his chest. "Sam, wake up."
He turns his face and groans a little, and that's when she sees his fat lip, his swelling face, the knot on the back of his head.
"Holy shit! Sam? Sam wake up."
Sam groans something that sounds like "fine," his face crumpling in pain. She watches nervously as he tries to rouse himself.
"Where," he mumbles.
"What?"
"Dean." Sam's good eye opens. He nudges her away so can sit up. "Where is he?"
"Dean? He-- Sam. What happened to your face?"
"Where is he?"
"He's gone, Sam. He didn't say goodbye?"
He jumps out of bed. She follows him out into the living room, where he pauses at the door to wrestle his shoes on, curses and muttering and tugging at his laces. He storms out of the apartment, down the stairs, out into the road.
The car is gone. Sam stops on the other side of the street, wipes the crusties out of his eyelashes, squinting in the fading sunlight. He turns to Jess.
"He's gone?"
"Yeah-- I-- Sam... I guess so."
"His stuff is gone from the house?"
"Yes."
"FUCK." Sam brings his fist down on the nearest car. "Fuck fuck FUCK."
"Sam, I'm sure he's--
"Where's my phone? Do you have your phone on you?"
"In the house. Come back inside. You need some ice for your face."
"I don't need ice. I need a fucking phone."
He glares at her like he expects her to make one materialize from nowhere. The way the sunlight hits his brow creates black caverns were his eyes should be. With one side of his face all swollen up and purple he looks like some kind of creature, alien. Monster.
"Where the fuck is my brother?" Sam says, his voice rising in panic. "He wouldn't--he can't just--"
She throws up her hands. "He's not a little kid that might've wandered onto the freeway, Sam. He's a grown man."
"Well I guess you got your fucking wish," he spits.
She knows he's groggy and the grogginess is making him irrational, but -- "what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means you could have tried a little goddamn harder to make him feel comfortable."
"More comfortable?"
"YES!" Sam wails. "Could you have been more awkward?"
"I can't believe you."
"The way you looked at him, like he was-- he's sick, Jessica, he's not some kind of fucking freak."
She can't do much but shake her head in disbelief. "That's great, Sam, that's a really fucking good one, why don't you tell me about the look on your face next time you see a walking corpse--"
"Are you ever gonna let that fucking go?"
"What is hell is wrong with you?"
"You have no fucking clue," he says, stabbing his finger at her, "You have no idea what it's like to have to make that kind of choice, between being my brother's fucking nurse or running away to college, and the way my dad-- it's a fucking miracle Dean is still alive in the first place and I was selfish, I decided--"
"--HEY!" someone calls, to Jessica's left. They both turn toward the noise and there's Nate, a couple of floors up, hanging out the window. "You lookin' for your brother?"
Sam squints up at him for several beats, like he doesn't understand the question. "Is he... is he up there with you?"
"Yeah dude. Playing pool." Nate squeezes the bill of his baseball cap and glances nervously over his shoulder. "I think... I think you need to take him home, dude. He's... messed up."
"Goddamn it, Dean," Sam growls under his breath. He takes three frantic strides toward the building then stops, turning back to Jess with that fucking kicked puppy lookon his face. "We'll... we'll talk later, okay? We'll talk about all of it. I promise."
And then he turns and runs. She watches him go and she's not angry, exactly, because the rational part of her understands emotionally charged family drama, if only to a lesser degree. The rational part of her also knows that Sam is right-- she doesn't have a fucking clue and probably never will.
So every other part of her turns and walks away.
***
Sam's never been able to figure out how many people actually live with Nate. His house is always sardine-packed with hideous parodies of college jocks, men who didn't even go to Stanford and God knows where they came from or why they were here, men who addressed each other by stupid nicknames, never spoke unless they were screaming at the top of their lungs, never drank unless they were shot-gunning Beast, never ate unless it was to lick nacho cheese off their fingers.
The door stands wide open and Sam walks into a thick crowd of students and townies mingling around mounted flat screens blaring with Monday night football.
Six of them, including Nate, are gathered at the pool table swilling from red plastic cups. The place smells like ground beef and cigars.
Sam spots Dean immediately, readying his shot, studying the eight ball with one eye clamped shut. He looks drunk; shitfaced, in fact. There's a pile of bills at one corner of the pool table. He holds up a twenty and throws it on the pile.
Goddamn it, Dean.
At least he had the good sense to use his oxygen. There's a cannula under his nose, the tubes snaking over his shoulders and into a duffle bag strapped to his back.
Sam stops for a moment, watching. Dean over-aims, then takes his shot and misses.
But the way he's positioned the eight ball-- the next guy is never going to make the shot.
The guy he's playing-- a tubby, red-faced blond townie that Sam recognizes as Josh or Jason or something, but everyone calls him King-- growls at the table and violently chalks his cue. He points to the far corner pocket, sloppily takes his shot and misses. A rowdy chorus of "YOU SUCK" swells up from the crowd.
"Who wans'ta bet me I makeit thiss time?" Dean slurs, swaying and sneering happily at the men around the table. He coughs chestily, but Sam can tell it's forced. He's not drunk, either.
King guffaws heartily and shakes his head. "Never, bro, you're never gonna make that shot."
"Putcher mula wer yer mouthiss, Cartman."
King thinks about it, then shakes his head. "Nah. Think yer broke enough."
"C'mon!" Dean wails. "All er nothin'! Gimmea chanceta winnit back."
King and a couple of his buddies huddle. There's some murmuring, then they slap three more twenty-dollar bills on the table.
"Hey," Sam says, breaking through the crowd and pulling at Dean's shoulder. "Enough. Let's go."
"Sammers! You made it!" Nate reappears from nowhere to clap him too hard on the back, regarding him drunkenly. "Hey. Wha happen to yer face?"
Sam ignores him, squeezing Dean's shoulder hard. "Dean. Come on. Please."
"You met Wheezer?" King says. "Wheezer, Sammers, Sammers Wheezer."
"Niceta meet you, Sammers" Dean says, conspicuously removing Sam's hand from his shoulder. "Finishin' tha game. Back off." With a drunken leer he holds out his beer cup to the men around the table, sloshing some on the table. "Ummuna show you all--you washing?"
He picks up his cue and starts lining up his shot.
"Dean, there are people smoking cigars in here," Sam hisses into Dean's ear as he's bent over the pool table.
"That's what the oxygen's for."
"It's not even on, Dean."
Dean looks innocently over his shoulder at the duffle. "Oh. Guess the battery ran out. I need this money, Sam. Get the fuck off me."
"What, SSI not good enough?"
"Not for two more weeks," Dean hisses, "Dad took all my fucking cash-- now back up."
"Dean, seriously," Sam whispers frantically, "these guys are always looking for a reason, man, so don't fucking give them one."
"Get the fuck off me." Angry now, Dean spins back to the pool table, points to the side pocket and takes his shot. The cue ball ricochets twice before knocking the eight ball cleanly into the pocket and there's nothing drunk or sloppily or amateur about it. The crowd of jocks square their shoulders, glowering at Dean, at the money, at the pocket where the eight ball disappeared, back at Dean.
"Lucky shot?" Dean says with a congested chuckle.
The silence drags on. Sam puts his hand back on Dean's shoulder and Dean doesn't shake it off this time. He stands there, fiddles with his cannula and arranges his face into an expression that says you wouldn't hit the sick guy, would you?
Nate starts wandering away-- thank god he's secretly in love with Jess, Sam knew there was a reason he put up with the guy-- but King steps forward, raising his chin.
"What the fuck, dude?"
Dean nods at the pile of cash. "Okay, you got me. Just take your fucking money."
"So what, you're some kinda hustler? That shit under your nose a prop?"
Dean detaches himself from the cannula, removes the backpack and throws it on the floor. "Real as can be. Doesn't mean I can't kick your ass."
"Dean for fuck's sake." Pulling Dean away is obviously no use so Sam steps between them. "Look, King. This guy is my brother, alright? He's been real sick--"
"--Sam shut the fuck--"
"--and obviously he feels like he's got something to prove. Just take your money and let it go, okay?"
"Dean," King says, blinking. He scowls a little. "Dean?"
Then it's like everything freezes over. The cold shoots through Sam, making the hair stand up on his arms, and he looks down and sees his own breath emerge from his mouth in a frozen cloud.
Oh, shit.
"Talk," King says.
Dean steps out from around Sam. "What was that, Tubby?"
King's eyes go blank."Talk. It doesn't... it doesn't. It doesn't talk."
One of the other jocks cocks his head. "King?"
King blinks slack-jawed at Sam and Dean. Then he begins to gasp, his mouth opening and closing like a drowning fish.
Oh, hilarious.
"Very fucking funny," Dean says.
King sucks in heaving, melodramatic breaths, then coughs a few times, dry and mocking and fake.
One of his buddies laughs awkwardly. "Dude, that's sooo fucked up."
Dean cocks his head like he can't believe what he's seeing. "Are you...?" He turns to Sam. "Is this guy...?"
King makes a low, growling heeeeee noise, then goes silent, his mouth still opening and closing, opening and closing. His eyes bulge out of his head.
"Dude," Dean says, "Mocking a guy with CF seems pretty un-PC, even for date-raping meathead like you."
And then King goes stiff as a board, keeling over onto his back, flailing, his hands flying to his neck. He begins to seize, his lips blue, his mouth foaming, eyes bursting from his head, neck muscles straining, veins pulsing on his red forehead.
The room goes terribly, terribly silent except for King's feeble, wet choking noises. God knows how long they all just stand there staring-- long enough for King to stop bucking and go still.
"Does... does anyone know CPR?" someone says.
"Is he fucking for real?" Dean says, but even as he's saying it he's stepping forward, dropping to his knees beside King, tilting his chin.
"Dean let me."
"Fuck off, Sam."
"Dean-- you don't have enough fucking air." He pushes Dean out of the way and leans down, giving King a once over and holy shit, he really isn't breathing.
"You," he says, pointing to the nearest of King's buddies, "Call 911."
He gives King two breaths and starts pumping, but all around him people are cursing and jostling his shoulders and he looks around for Dean while he's doing compressions and can't see him anywhere, just denim and feet and knees and beer cups, and he loses count somewhere between 15 and 20 so he gives up and leans down to give King two more breaths. A hurk rises from King's throat and Sam's mouth fills with vomit-- he turns his head, spits black and thick and heaves and it takes every last ounce of his self control not to puke. Some girl pushes him out of the way and says I'll take over and Sam lets her.
Someone begins to laugh, shrill and manic. Sam turns and it's Nate, and it's like he's laughing in slow motion, his back arched, hands in his pockets, his head thrown back so far his baseball cap slips and falls to the ground. Someone smacks him on the back of the head but he keeps laughing, higher and higher.
Then there's a familiar hand on Sam's elbow and it's Dean. He clings to his brother's shirtsleeve and they watch, they just sit there and watch as King comes back to life roaring, flinging the girl halfway across the room. He flops and struggles for air, vomit still trickling from the corners of his mouth, skin turning from red to blue to gray. His eyes are mostly shut and rolled back in his head but suddenly they fly open, teary and angry and seeing, gaze shifting frantically from left to right. He forces out one final, frustrated squeal, reaches his shaking fist out at nothing and then goes limp.
Only four minutes has gone by by the time the ambulance arrives but it doesn't matter, King is already dead.
***
Dean pulls his brother out of the apartment before the cops show up.
He's seen a hundred people and a thousand things die but there's still a shitload of adrenaline pumping through his system, opening his airways and--as fucked up as it might be--putting him in a pretty good fucking mood. Tendrils of pain are starting to work their way up his spine, but he ignores it same as he tries to ignore how fucking exhilarated he feels.
"Sam... that was fucked up."
Sam's very pale and still wiping neurotically at his mouth like he can't get the puke off. "No shit."
"That's not what I mean. I mean that was fucked."
"You don't know that guy, Dean," he mutters, "probably a coke overdose or something."
"That was no coke overdose. That was freakin' supernatural and you know it."
Sam just grunts and keeps walking.
They return to the apartment in silence. The sun has gone down and the place is almost black but neither of them bother with the lights. Dean stands in the doorway while Sam wanders around the apartment calling "Jess?"
There's a note on the fridge. Sam plucks it off and reads it, his face expressionless.
"She's staying with friends for a few days," he says, crumpling the note in his fist.
"Dude, I'm..."
"It's okay." Sam looks at his watch. "It's time to do your chest."
Dean wants to say no because he feels great. But he knows that somewhere underneath the adrenaline rush he hasn't had CPT all day and his lungs are filled to the brim with crap.
"I got my vest," he says, "You don't--"
"Nah," Sam says. "I'm okay."
"She'll be back, Sam." Dean says, "God knows why, but that chick loves you."
Sam snorts wet, teary, hopeless laughter. "I felt a cold spot."
"What?"
"A cold spot. Right before King started to choke. And the way Nate was laughing..."
"You think he was possessed?"
"Maybe."
"We have to check this out."
"Yeah. We do."
"Sam." Dean's hand grips Sam's elbow. "Can you do this?"
"Yeah. Can you?"
"Of course."
"Okay," Sam says, "Okay."
Then he bows his head and pinches the bridge of his nose and begins to cry.
***
"Hey," Dean says, standing close. "This is a bump in the road, dude. We'll take care of it and things'll go back to normal."
Sam can't say much, can't think about much, but he know that's bullshit, things aren't ever going back to normal, maybe he doesn't even want things to go back to normal and God he hates Dean for it, but at the same time--
Dean tugs at his arm. Sam allows himself to be led to the sofa. For a minute his brother just sits beside him, breathing harshly, his hand resting between Sam's shoulder blades as he hitches with pathetic sobs.
Sam turns and buries his wet, snotty face in Dean's shoulder. He's not sobbing, not really, it's just pain his chest and tears leaking out his eyes, but he presses his ear to Dean's chest and listens to whistle and crackle in his brother's lungs, uniform in some ways and unpredictable in the others and the sound horrifies and scares and comforts him all at the same time.
He's about to lose his girlfriend.
It's only a matter of time before he loses Dean, too.
And now he's a hunter again.
"Fuck," he says, pulling away from his brother. "Goddamn it fuck."
"Sam. Here." Dean pushes a pillow into Sam's arms, then kicks his shoes off and sits on the back of the sofa.
Confused, Sam wipes his nose on the pillowcase, following his brother's movements with tear-blind eyes.
"Lean forward, hug the pillow," Dean says.
"Oh come on--"
"Shut up. You'll like it, it's... relaxing."
Sam scoffs but leans forward. Dean begins to pound on either side of Sam's spine with cupped hands.
It doesn't feel good, exactly. In fact it's kind of jarring and feels silly and even hurts a little. Eventually he relaxes into the pillow anyway, sighing deeply, lulled by the beat. The tears might still be seeping but he breathes freely and when Dean begins to hum he recognizes it as some Metallica song, the title just on the tip of his tongue as he drifts in and out of sleep.
:::
CHAPTER SEVEN