True north- Dean
“Dean…” Alastair gazed down at him, eyes devoid of any color, mouth drawn up in a sneer. “Answer me,” he demanded in a purr-like growl. There’s a sharp blade in his raised hand, prepared to slice again, light catching on the metal as he twirls it.
A clock ticks, self importantly reminding those around that time hasn’t stopped.
The sound echoing in Dean’s head. Throbbing. Pounding in his skull…
“Hey…” Alastair’s voice sounds more concerned this time. His face blurs and frays around the edges. “You with me?”
The light starts to shimmer, Alastair is grabbing his shoulder. “Dean!” Sam’s voice shouts. But the face is still Alastair’s and the knife is still there, and the chainsaws start buzzing.
“Hey!”
Dean jolted, eyes open wide. “Wha..?” his voice faltered. Heart hammering in his chest, muscles locked, too terrified to move; he slammed his eyes closed, then open, desperate to get his bearings. Things start to find focus...
Motel room.
“Dean?”
Sam's voice.
Dean turned his head. Sam's face.
“You with me?”
Dean sighed in relief, heart still racing. Sam. That was Sam’s voice. Not Alastair's, or any of the other hundreds of tormented souls and demons he’d met in Hell. More focused now, he could see; that was Sam and he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Brow scrunched in concern.
Gaudy, threadbare curtains and sheets, cheap pressboard tables, outdated colors all filled in the gaps... yeah, another crap-assed motel. And Sam.
“Hey...” Sam tried, voice cautious and soft. In one hand was a towel, wadded neatly and in the other, a water bottle. “You all right?” he asked, eyes pinched in concern with just a hint of that ever-present annoyance.
“I uh…” Dean coughed, cleared his throat and worked to get into a sitting position, one that felt less vulnerable, less weak. “Guess I dozed off.” Closing his eyes, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. The effect was more physiologic than physic, because it changed nothing.
“Yeah,” Sam sighed tiredly. “Understatement of the century. At least it was something resembling sleep…” he murmured.
Purposefully ignoring that last comment, Dean’s fingers inched up, attempting to soothe the ache that was now the equivalent of a million trolls compressed inside his skull and all of them pissed as shit. His stomach picked that moment to twist and roll in response.
“Don’t tou-” Sam warned but a little too late as Dean hissed and pulled his fingers back. “… touch that,” he finished.
“The hell…” Dean murmured. Employing a lighter touch, his fingers ghosted lightly over the torn flesh at his temple, noting the familiar butterfly tape adhesive and the taught pull of flesh over the good sized goose-egg. “Son of a bitch,” he growled and closed his eyes at the constant hammering in his head. And here he was, hoping for it to be just a hangover.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. The bed shifted a couple of times then something cold brushed Dean’s forearm. “Here.”
Dean opened his eyes; Sam held a wadded towel in his hand and urged him silently to take it. The stuffing, he figured, was surely ice. “Thanks.” Despite his best efforts, once the cold cloth touched goose-egg, the sensitive flesh throbbed harder and he winced in response. “Jesus...”
“You do know,” Sam began, his voice taking on that tone, “it’s generally a bad idea to hit on some large biker dude’s chick, right?”
God, Dean really didn't want to do this right now. “You don't say,” he responded casually.
“Especially, when he’s there with four of his equally beefy biker friends,” Sam continued, a little angrier this time, “and not one of them is less than six feet of muscle and spoiling for a fight.”
Dean rolled his eyes gently because even that hurt, and glared at Sam. “I wasn’t hitting on her, I was…” He thought a moment, lowering the ice pack. “I was just being friendly.”
“Well,” Sam chuckled, “her boyfriend didn’t seem to think so and given how drunk you were…”
“Jesus, what'd he hit me with?” Dean murmured and pulled the cloth away from his head.
“No-no,” Sam quickly placed a hand under Dean's and guided it back to press the ice pack once more against the knot. “Keep that on there. Get the swelling down.” Having gotten another look at the cut, he winced. “Yeah, maybe I should’ve stitched that.”
“No,” Dean sighed tiredly and pulled the towel back just enough to glance at the surface before showing it to Sam. “See. No bleeding. Butterfly’s enough, the rest is just a headache.”
“Hang on,” Sam said as he twisted and picked up a bottle of pills from the night stand. He shook out two painkillers and pressed them into Dean’s free hand. “We could stay an extra day,” he said watching as Dean popped the pills in his mouth, noting how he was careful not to move too much.
“Because of a headache?” Dean asked before washing the meds down with half the contents of the water bottle. “Screw that, I’m fine,” he insisted. The shrill guitar riff of his ring-tone blared suddenly and he winced. “Dammit.”
“Yeah, right,” Sam quipped quietly, the word dripping with sarcasm. “You’re just fine.”
Too focused on ending the noise, Dean ignored Sam’s retort and continued patting his pockets. The damn thing managed to ring once more when Dean fished it from his pocket and flipped it open with a glance to the number. No one he knew.
“What?” he shouted and immediately regretted it. A new wave of pain rippled through his skull and he pressed his forehead into the ice but the damage was done.
“Um…” a hesitant voice stammered a moment. “I-is this… I’m looking for um, Dean Winchester.”
“Well, you got ’im,” Dean confirmed and tossed Sam a puzzled look. “Who’s this?”
“You probably don’t remember me, but I… my name is Michael. You helped me and my family four years back. Saved my brother’s life. A lot of other kids too.”
Dean's brow furrowed. “Michael…” he repeated the caller’s name, testing the sound of it, hoping it would spark a memory but it didn’t. “Sorry, I don’t-”
“My little brother’s name is Asher. Mom ran a motel in Fitchburg, Wisconsin where there was this thing killing kids. Making them real sick. You called it a Shtriga… ring any bells yet?”
“Wait,” Dean said quietly. All motels started looking the same after a while. That one, however...
“Need a room.” Dean said. He spared the kid behind the counter little more than a quick glance as he rifled through the cards in his wallet.
“King or two queens?” he asked, staring at Dean with this know-it-all smirk.
“Two queens,” Dean said and slapped the credit card on the counter. He watched curiously as the boy tilted to one side to gaze past him; Dean did a half-turn to follow the boy’s gaze; Sam stood outside, leaning casually against the Impala
“Yeah, I bet.” The kid smirked.
Dean whipped his head around and stared at the kid. “What did you say?” he asked, daring the kid to back his play with something more than innuendo.
“Nice car,” he responded with an innocent smile.
“Fitchburg. The Sht-,” Dean murmured. He snapped his fingers; it all came to him. “That Michael? That little smart mouthed Michael at the motel?”
Michael chuckled. “Guilty.”
“Wow,” Dean ran a hand through his hair as he listened in disbelief. “Man, um… well,” he stood and tossed the ice pack on the bed, felt Sam’s questioning gaze burning into him, “much as I’d like to believe you’re just calling to thank us, four years and probably a dozen burner phones later, I gotta believe there’s another reason for this call. For which, by the way, you’re going to have to explain to me how you got my cell number and all…”
“Yeah, well. You’re right about the call being something else entirely.” Michael hesitated a second. “You know, after you guys left, I sorta kept up with you.”
“Really?” Dean said pulling a beer from the mini-fridge. “How so?” he moved back over to the table. What he really wanted to ask was why but he was afraid he wouldn’t like the answer.
“It’s not too hard if you’re pretty good at computers. The trail of false ID’s and credit cards helped, and like I said, a little computer know-how.”
“Well, color me glad you’re not a Fed.” Dean froze, ass in mid-descent over the chair at the little motel table. Sam glared thunderously at him. Dean could only shrug helplessly back at his brother while mentally scampering to figure how old Michael would be now and what the FBI’s policy on recruiting children was. “You’re not a Fed, right?”
Michael chuckled mirthlessly. “No, not a Fed. Look, I called because, well, I kinda need your help. Again.”
Dean breathed a quiet sigh of relief and dropped into the chair. “Not another Shtriga, is it?” he asked even though he was fairly certain that was impossible. Still, the impossible was precisely their line of work so he grabbed their dad’s journal and Sam flipped open his computer.
“No, not that. I honestly don't know what it is, but people don't just disappear! The cops, they won't listen and-” Dean heard him sigh. “Listen, is it possible we do this in person? It’s a long story.”
“Okay,” Dean nodded. “You still in Fitchburg? Your mom still hot -er- living there too?” Sam kicked Dean under the table. “Ouch.” Dean whispered angrily and glared at his brother.
“No, I live in up-state New York. I’m in college.”
“Oh,” Dean nodded. “That’s good. Good for you.” He pulled the cheap motel pad out from under the journal and with one hand, popped the cap off the pen. “Where at?”
~o~
Sam shoved his way angrily out of the car. “I can’t believe you said that to me!” he practically shouted and slammed the passenger. The car rocked with the impact.
As much as the rough treatment of his baby grated on Dean’s nerves, he knew better. Breathing deeply to keep a tight rein on his temper, he gripped the steering wheel. He knew better because Sam was well and truly pissed. Moreover, he knew better because he knew Sam had every right to be.
What he’d said, though he’d never intended it to be, had been insensitive considering the events of the last few months. But Sam had been harassing him over his lack of sleep, his lack of sharing over his time below and dammit, he’d had to say something! Dean just hadn’t meant to say... that.
Still, Dean cursed himself internally, remained seated and wished like hell he could take those words back. But he couldn’t and neither could he avoid a conversation he really didn’t want to have so he opted for a slow exit instead; he needed every second he could get partly to tamp down his own feelings of guilt, and partly to give Sam some time to cool down.
After a sidelong glance at his brother, however, any chance of that happening disappeared completely. His back to Dean, Sam’s hands balled up into fists on his hips, his head tipped back slightly, giving slight shakes, no doubt of his disbelief.
Yup, cooling off looked more like loading up for another round.
Accepting his fate, Dean planted both feet on the concrete parking lot, rose to full height and took a deep breath before beginning. “Yeah…” he mumbled as he leaned against the car and looked around them, wishing desperately for a drink to get through this. “Yeah, I um…” he glanced toward Sam. “Look, that was…it was a terrible thing to say-” Sam’s huff at the understatement had Dean’s dander up again. “Hey man, if you hadn’t-”
The sentence died when Sam spun at the challenge in Dean’s tone, pinning him with that hurt angry look he was so frigging good at. Super. Dean deflated. This was backfiring spectacularly.
Dammit, this wasn’t all Dean’s fault. Sam had been pushing him. Again. Needling him on the subject of his sleeping habits, or lack thereof and his unwillingness to talk about Hell and Dean had reacted as he always had; with tersely disguised humor. Something Dean had always done before… before Sam had watched him actually die, unable to do anything as he was ripped to shreds by a hell-hound. Then, as he’d spent hours burying his torn and shredded body.
“Sam, c’mon man, I’m- I’m sorry,” Dean tried again. “I know I-”
“Sorry?” Sam choked out and turned to face his brother head-on. The look of disbelief and hurt screamed back at Dean and Dean flinched and looked away.
“Look,” Dean said tried again, “I was just trying to say that sleep is-”
“Don’t.” Sam barked threateningly. “Don’t you dare give me some shit like ‘sleep is highly overrated because…” he couldn’t finish. Sam shook his head and stalked several paces away from the car, shoulders still tense and back straight before he stopped and just stood there.
And Dean shrunk into himself, replaying in his mind their conversation. When Sam, sore and stiff from their marathon drive to reach New York had woken to catch Dean in the middle of a jaw cracking yawn, had groused that for someone who claimed he wasn’t tired, he looked like warmed up crap.
And Dean just couldn’t help himself. In his usual attempt to diffuse and divert the attention away from himself, he’d smirked and said, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Sammy.”
God. The choked, whimper Sam had made. Unable to meet his brother’s eyes, Dean had to look away. He’d regretted those words the moment they’d left his lips but… dammit, Sam just wouldn’t stop pushing. And Dean had pushed back on reflex and... well, Dean would just have to wait out Sam’s tirade and apologize again, he owed him that much. Dean’s death had been really hard on his brother and regardless of what Dean had gone through, he needed to remember that.
“I said I was sorry… what more do you want? A pint of my-” Dean bit his lip and Sam spun and glared at him. “Man, would you quit making me do this! I suck at apologies. Can we just go find Michael's’ apartment?”
Sam sighed and walked back toward the car and stood there. “You didn’t even sleep the whole trip, Dean.”
Oh god. Back to that argument again. “I slept.”
“An hour, maybe two in forty-eight hours? Dean, that’s not sleep, that's insanity waiting to happen.” Sam’s voice was level and even and Dean hated it more than the argumentative bitchy whine because that was something he could derail and push on, not this. This rational calm voice.
“Told you, I just wasn’t tired.”
Sam nodded. “Right, that’s why the dark circles under your eyes have bags and the bags have their own set of dark circles.”
Dean shrugged. “Well sure I’m tired now.” Sam huffed and looked away. Dean continued, “Look, I promise I’ll sleep after we’ve talked to Michael but he’s expecting us and I promised him we’d get here by morning,” he looked up at the rapidly brightening sky, “and there’s not much of that left.”
Sam was quiet a moment longer. “You either don’t get it or you’re hoping I don’t.”
Dean felt utterly perplexed and a little more than irritated. “Then enlighten me, Sam,” he said as he threw out his arms. “Because I’m real tired of guessing your cryptic moods here.”
“It’s not about you not sleeping Dean. It’s the why you’re not sleeping that worries me. And why you’re drinking steadily and on the odd occasion that you do sleep, you wake bathed in sweat with the last gasp of a scream on your lips.”
It was Dean’s turn to shudder. He offered a huff and look away; he didn’t want to see the truth of Sam’s observations, and what’s more, he didn’t want to hear it. “I’m done here,” he growled and turned to walk away.
“You know Dean,” Sam’s voice notched higher, wanting to be sure Dean heard him. “It’s hard enough to help you when you’re walking around in a sleep-deprived daze and harder still to do this job when I’m no longer sure of your ability to react to save your own life, let alone mine.”
Dean stumbled to a halt, his blood freezing in his veins. He spun and pinned Sam with a thunderous stare. “You saying I don’t have your back?”
“No, I’m saying it’s real hard to be sure you’re on your game when you’re walking around in a fog. I’m saying I saw you from the gas-station window when you jerked awake in the car after your little two hour cat-nap with a look of sheer terror in your eyes. I’m saying you’re drinking all the time and… I’m worried about you.”
Dean felt the air go out of his lungs and he looked down at the paper in his hands, the one with Michael’s address scrawled across it. This had gotten uncomfortable and it was time to divert and move on.
“Yeah, well. I appreciate your concern but I’m fine-”
“Right, people who come back from Hell are always fine.”
Dean spread his arms in utter confusion. “What do you want me to say Sam? Maybe I’m not 100% fine but I’ll get there. And regardless, we have this job to do and this guy that we owe a lot to for helping us kill that Shtriga.” He waved the apartment address at Sam and turned from the car. “Now, if you wanna continue this discussion, you’ll have to do it without me, because I for one am not going to let him down. Are you?”
Dean started up the stairs and after a heartbeat, he heard his little brother following, long strides catching up with him easily as they took the stairs in unison, stopping when they reached the stoop to the door. A panel with buttons and coinciding apartment numbers listed one apartment number next to each button.
Dean found and pressed the key next to apartment 30 and together they waited. The tension of their conversation still hung heavily in the air but mostly, Dean’s mind was already at work furiously trying to figure out a way of getting out of his promise to get some sleep after their interview with Michael.
“Yeah?” A voice cut from the little speaker beneath the button panel.
“Michael? It’s Dean and Sam Winchester.” The sound of the door unlocking hit before Michael answered.
“C’mon up.”
~o~
In Michael’s cramped apartment, Dean and Sam sat on an old, seen-better-days sofa, each clutching a piping hot mug of coffee. While Michael finished making his own drink, they gazed around the room.
Nearly every empty floor space had stacks of books. There were more books, in fact, than furniture. There were several stacks lining one wall, and in each corner opposite the sofa and one even had a lamp perched on top. On a crate in front of them were still more books, several spiral notebooks and a laptop, and where there weren’t books, there were dirty dishes, clothes and a blanket that covered the sofa; beneath it? Who knew? Certainly neither of the Winchesters cared to speculate.
It was a typical, too poor, too busy and too focused on school to care, college-kid apartment.
Dean watched Michael carefully. He looked drawn and gray, like he hadn’t slept enough in weeks and missed too many meals and… sad. The sentiment was like a shawl covering all that the kid should be.
“So, you called,” he started before Michael could take his seat; he could feel Sam’s curious eyes on him. “How can we help?”
Dean didn’t think it possible for the kid to become paler, but just that one question had completely leached out what little color he’d had left. Clearly, whatever had happened, it had affected this young man adversely and he looked ready to topple. Dean shifted to the edge of his seat, ready to make a grab for him, feeling Sam do the same, as he’d obviously seen it too.
Michael must have seen their reactions because he raised a staying hand. “It’s alright, I’m alright,” he said as he lowered himself to the chair across from them. After setting his own steaming mug on the makeshift table he picked up a book from the table, tugged a piece of paper out and stared at it; he seemed to study it, his face taking on a range of emotion, none of them good. “Ever heard of North Brother Island?” he said but never took his eyes off what Dean could now tell was a picture.
Dean started to shake his head but before he could he felt Sam shift next to him and looked at his brother. “I haven’t but,” Dean paused for effect, and Sam didn’t disappoint; he knew that look. “But my trusty Encyclopedia of all things Weird might have.”
Sam leveled a ‘screw you’ face at him and cleared his throat.
“If I remember right, there was a hospital there, built in the late 1800’s, I think. It was used as a quarantine facility for contagions ranging from smallpox to typhoid, and even leprosy.”
Michael nodded, his eyes still locked on the image in the photo. “Right, but there’s a different part of the history, one rarely mentioned. And I let them go there, to that place, even though I knew better.”
“Who, Michael?” Dean asked.
Michael’s hand was trembling now but he slowly extended the photo toward Dean. “My friends and-and Karen.” His eyes met Dean’s. “I was going to marry her after school, but now…”
Dean looked at the photo, tilting it so Sam could see. “Them,” he said as he looked at the faces of the group of young people in the photo, one of them Michael’s. “You mean all of these people...?”
“Gone. My best friends. We were all in the same year here at Cornell. All of us ready to change the world with our dreams and illusions like what we did mattered but-
“What’s this got to do with North Brother Island?” Sam asked and Dean was grateful. It was best to stick with the facts, keep Michael on track and off the emotional side of his loss, the side that was ripping him apart from the inside. “How did you and your friends end up there?”
Michael stared at Sam a moment. “When we weren’t studying our asses off, we volunteered our time at a low income clinic not far from the island; practical experience in real-life settings looks good on a resume, you know? There was this guy that was always there, he wore these expensive suits, introduced himself as a benefactor of the foundation that covered the clinic’s expenses. He seemed nice enough, took an interest in us and was always there when we were there. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it…”
When it seemed Michael wasn’t going to continue, Dean prodded. “And now?”
“Now, I think he was baiting us.” Michael looked at Dean, his eyes rolling in guilt. “I wasn’t there when he made the offer. I should have been there. I would have stopped them.”
“What offer, Michael?” Sam tried this time. “Did he want them to go to the island?”
Michael nodded. “I came down with the flu two days before,” he continued, voice hallow and self-deprecating, “and ended up not going to the clinic that day. He made them an offer, told them that if they could stay the night on the island, he’d pay off all our school loans.”
“And they believed him?” Dean said incredulously. “Just like that, they went? Not a one of them thought it too good to be true?”
“They weren’t idiots!” Michael snapped angrily.
Sam reached out a staying hand. “I'm sure that's not what Dean meant,” he said attempting to calm him. “We're just trying to understand, okay?”
Michael deflated quickly and sat back in his chair, eyeing his untouched drink. “Karen called me on their way to the docks,” he continued. “She told me what he’d offered and I tried talking her out of going. I did. I knew it didn’t sound right. But they were… they were strange... It almost seemed like they were off somehow, drunk-like.” He shook his head. “It was weird. Karen was never the type to go off on adventures like that.”
Dean and Sam shared a look. “What’s the other thing about the island, that thing you mentioned before?” Dean asked.
Michael nodded. “There were rumors. Of the hospital being in function long before its opening day, of weird deaths amongst the patients, unnamed personnel sent there as a part of some government program, never to be seen again... the usual sort of conspiracy theory type thing.”
The room was quiet a moment and Dean asked quietly, “What happened to your friends, Michael?”
Michael swallowed audibly. “I made Karen promise to text me every hour to check in and she did that. And with each text message she was progressively more scared. Then in the last one...” Michael closed his eyes, the memory clearly too painful to bear. “She was sure there was something other than the six of them on that island. Something evil.”
“You told all this to the cops?” Sam asked quietly and Michael nodded, a tear escaping his closed lids, tracking slowly down his cheeks as another followed. “What did they say?”
“Police searched the island but found no trace of them. They searched for weeks!” He sniffed and wiped at the tears with the back of his wrist. Eyes still shining he met the brothers’ gazes, determined. “The skiff they took out, that’s the only thing they found. It was in a twisted, mangled wreck up river, on the shore. The cops figure they were on their way back when their boat capsized in the choppy waters near Hell Gate and given the currents, their bodies were dragged out to sea.”
The room was quiet for nearly a full minute, the Winchesters sitting quietly before Dean shifted. “Um,” he began hesitantly, “so what’s this Hell Gate you mentioned?
“Oh, it's a real narrow point of the East River, a tidal strait. And that means treacherous water flow, undertows, scary to navigate if the weather gets bad.”
Dean and Sam shared a look. “And it's the only way to the island?”
Michael scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I'm afraid so. But it's doable, just you know, don't go when the weather's bad. No matter how good you are at operating a skiff.”
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