Darkest Side of Black- Chapter 3
When he was younger, young enough to not know better, this was the time of the night where he would see his mother, dressed in a blue summer dress, holding a burning matchstick in her fingers. The fire would burn and burn through the match until it reached the tip of her fingers, and still she wouldn't let go.
Like always, I advise you: please read all warnings in the Prologue before proceeding. More nasty stuff happens in this chapter, so don't come complaining to me when you lose your lunch over this ;O) This time around, I'm not going to make promises about Chapter 4 because May is the last month I'll have to work on my SPN Big Bang story. Plus, my wonderful beta will be busy with both her Big Bang story PLUS beta-ing mine (I know... totally insane). So, I will try to not go too much beyond the one month time-slot that I've been keeping so far, but thought it was only fair to let you guys know that delays may occur. Chapter 4 is about half way done, so... might not be that bad ;O)
A massive THANK YOU goes to jackfan2 for her beta-work. All remaining mistakes are my own.
CHAPTER//(O|O)\\THREE
Dean pushed the bed covers away from his legs with an angry kick. It was too hot and even though the sheets were threadbare and almost see-through, their touch on the burned skin of his chest was becoming abrasive and infecting his whole body with an over cooked feeling.
It was easy to remember the last time he'd tried to get a tan to compete with his brother and had ended up with results similar to the ones he was sporting now. Dean had been sixteen and Sam had recently turned twelve and they'd spend a whole summer at Bobby's. It'd been hotter than a fat lady's ass crack and Dean remembered stomping his foot on the sunscreen that the older hunter had offered him, saying that was for wusses and babies.
Dean's skin had peeled for a whole week after one day under the hot sun and by the end of their stay, his smug younger brother was supporting a healthy and golden tan while Dean was shedding skin like a leper.
Dean tossed and turned on the too hot bed for what felt like the millionth time; throwing his arms up letting them rest against the cold surface of the bed's headboard, Dean sighed in temporary relief.
His sore body kept pulling him under, exhausted beyond reason, even if the running thoughts inside his head kept Dean from slipping too deep into unconsciousness.
Sam had told that he was running to the store on the other side of town to fetch some supplies. Dean knew he was lying. There was a general store at the end of the street that was perfectly fine for whatever Sam needed to buy. Besides, even if his brother had to drive all the way across town to fetch whatever it was he wanted, it wouldn't take him more than a hour to do so.
Of course Dean was supposed to be deeply asleep by the time the delay became too obvious. But that was beside the point.
Dean could easily guess where his brother was going. He'd been practically salivating over a particular Indian man, who just happened to live near by. And Dean could bet his right nut that that was exactly where Sam was now.
Dean shifted, hissing when his back dragged across the sheets and flamed the sensitive skin all over again, pushing sleep further away. He hated this twilight of awareness, where he knew he wasn't asleep but his brain wasn't quite awake either.
It was dangerous territory for a hunter, a place where memories could sneak up on him and he wouldn't be alert enough to fight them back; a place where his brain could dig up whatever terror it wanted and bring to the surface nightmares that were usually buried deep and forgotten.
There were too many monsters, too many faces and too much pain for Dean to allow himself to wander in that foggy state of consciousness for too long.
When he was younger, young enough to not know better, this was the time of the night where he would see his mother, dressed in a blue summer dress, holding a burning matchstick in her fingers. The fire would burn and burn through the match until it reached the tip of her fingers, and still she wouldn't let go.
Later, it just became whatever monster he'd failed to kill, whatever victim he'd let die.
Today... today it was twisted shadows on the hot sand and winged monsters breathing down his neck.
Dean opened his eyes, daring his mind to do any sort of replay now that he could see the cracked ceiling and the ugly painting on the wall facing his bed. Ugly, but not a monster.
The closed curtains, doing little to hide the occasional flare of a car's headlights, shrouded the silent room with dark corners and playful shapes.
Dean flung his right arm over his eyes. The dancing shadows in the empty room were making him more jumpy than what he was used to. There was nothing in there, Dean was sure of that. He'd seen Sam lay out the salt lines, he knew both the door and the windows were locked and he knew all the usual protection charms and amulets had been scattered around the place. He was just... jumpy. Jittery, like he'd had a dozen coffees.
The fact that Dean knew there was absolutely no reason for him to be acting like that only grated harder against his annoyance. Every time Dean closed his eyes, all he could see were giant black wings and a deformed face. Why couldn't his mind let go of that?
And the smell in that room... he and Sam had stayed in some pretty stinky places, but this one took the cake.
Dean hadn't really noticed it before, when the steam of the shower and the faint smell of the wheat soap still filled the air, but now... he was half tempted to get up and find out exactly what animal was rotting under the bed. If the stench was anything to go by, it was probably a dead cow.
The shadows shifted again and Dean resisted the urge to slip his hand beneath his pillow and curl it around the handle of his knife. He cursed out loud. This was turning ridiculous. Dean Winchester, jumping at shadows.
Which made it all the more surprising when the shadows jumped back at him.
Dean could hear the springs of the mattress protesting under the added weigh before he felt the heat and the body pressed against his.
"T'fuck?" He let out, heart hammering against his chest. His first instinct was to grab the weapon beneath his pillow, but he couldn't move his arms. He couldn't move at all.
His mind drifted back to what he'd imagined in the desert and bile forced its way up Dean's throat. It hadn't been real. It'd been just a heat-induced hallucination.
God! He could recognize the smell now. That wasn't the stench of an unkempt motel room. It was the same stink he'd choked on in the desert, the same rotten and shitty smell that had filled his nostrils just before that thing...
Panic slammed into Dean's chest with the force of a speeding locomotive.
Swallowing down the acid taste in his mouth, Dean bucked his hips up, trying to dislodge whatever it was that was keeping him pinned to the bed. He couldn't see a thing but he could certainly feel it. It was the same helpless feeling he remembered from before, that same ripping pull of every single muscle in his body wanting to react, to do something and find out that none of them could.
A car drove by, the sound of tires on the asphalt clashing surreally with the pressure on top of Dean's body. The bright light of the car's headlights traveled across the room and, finally, Dean caught a glimpse of it.
The wings were as black as before and the bat-like thing was hovering above him, gaze just as hungry as before. Dean knew exactly what was going to happen next.
"No... this... this isn't happening... this can't be real..."
Saying it didn't help, though. Dean's brain was alert enough now to know that this was real. It was real now just as it certainly had been real before. As real as his brain was assuring him, so unless Dean's brain had finally check out...
There was no heat of the sun now, no confusion in his mind. The details were too sharp for it to be all inside his head. The texture of the leathery wings, the sting of it's claw-like fingers, rough against the flesh of his wrists, the growing warmth trapped between their closed pressed bodies as the thing's phallus grew and throbbed.
It wasn't shame that stopped Dean from crying out for help. His tongue had stopped working along with every other muscle in his body. Dean could barely move enough to get some air inside his chest, he couldn't reach any weapon and he wasn't even sure if they had any weapon that would work on this thing and all he could think of was why the hell was Sam taking so long.
It wasn't pride that stopped him from crying for help. It was the feeling of something voluminous and wet, demanding entrance, pressed against his lips, pushing so hard that Dean felt his teeth cutting against his bottom lip before the pressure became too much and he was forced to open his mouth.
The hasty intrusion of something so foreigner and unyielding inside his mouth was enough to set off Dean's gag reflex. It tasted like wet dog fur, moist and sticky, with the consistence of sandpaper as it scrapped back and forth over his tongue, poking in turns the roof of Dean's mouth and the back of his throat, until he couldn't help but grunt at the pain. The fact that the thing assaulting him seemed to enjoy the flutter of sound being forced from Dean's vocal cords only aggravated Dean's sense of helplessness and indignation.
He tried closing his teeth around the bat's dick, but it was no use. Like his arms and legs, his jaw was trapped in whatever lockdown the creature had him in and Dean knew that he would only be allowed to move when the monster had had its fun.
The tears that crept up Dean's eyes were both a reflex of having his mouth opened past its comfortable position and the bitter bite of shame at being so coarsely used. Again.
*Tell him*
Dean blink back the shroud of tears and blackness from his eyes. He couldn't talk, he couldn't swallow, he couldn't fucking breath. But he'd heard the voice in his head and he was sure it couldn't have come from anyone else but the thing pounding his mouth.
*Tell him*
Dean forced himself to look at the monster, trying to capture its eye and silently convey how much he wanted to kill it if the monster all but left Dean lift a thumb.
There was a slight glitch in the tempo it was setting, sawing in and out of Dean's mouth, enough for him to think that maybe, just maybe, it had understood his message. It was enough to give Dean something other to think other than the mantra of getitoutgetitoutgetitout that was echoing over and over in his mind. Instead, Dean decided to picture all the ways in which he would end this ugly thing's existence.
Dean pictured setting it on fire, sitting back calmly as its wings were engulfed by red hot flames and withered away like they were nothing but burned paper.
Again the same bump in the movement, quickly compensated by pushing harder into Dean's mouth.
Dean gasped, fought for breath, but didn't give up. He pictured grabbing the knife beneath his pillow and cutting clean across the dick pounding his mouth, right before slashing the bat's throat, blood gushing wide and fast, spraying red all over the wall above the bed.
The bat's legs pressed against his shoulders so tightly that Dean could see nothing but dark, fury skin. There was bile rising up in his throat, but no room for it to get out, as the monster tested all boundaries. Dean felt like he was being filled down to his insides, a fire hose pumping air and sand directly into his stomach. He felt like he was dying.
Dean pictured reaching up and pick out the monster's single eye, turn it into pulp in between his fingers and use it's socket hole as a support for his gun's muzzle as he blew the thing's brains away.
The sudden feeling of something slimy filling his mouth caught Dean by surprise. It felt like someone had poured acid down his throat, watered down salt that tasted of death slithering all the way deep inside until it felt like he was on fire.
* Your deepest wishes are now granted. Enjoy the gift I have bestowed you. *
The bile that had been pushing to get out all that time, finally found its escape tunnel through Dean's nose, and he coughed and sputtered and felt himself choke in his own fluids and the gunk that the beast had shot into him.
'Fuck you!' Dean thought with all of his might, will to survive being pushed aside by the sheer amount of hatred and yearning to kill that supernatural motherfucker, who'd just used Dean to get his fucking rocks off and still had the nerve to act like it was doing Dean a favor. Granting Dean a whish, like all he ever wanted was to be used and abuse.
Fuck that!
As soon as Dean could move, he was going to gut that son of a bitch. As soon as he could breath.
Bile was still coming out, mixed with whatever that animal had shot down Dean's throat and he couldn't get a single mouthful of air in. His throat was closing in and the last thing Dean wanted was for this to be his last action on earth. To die without revenge, without payback... without retribution.
Oh, God! To have Sam come back and find him like this...
The bat-thing finally pulled its dick out from Dean's mouth. Dean gulped a lung full of air, his lungs burning and sluggish in their job. He spat out the remains of bile and spit and... and semen that were still in his mouth, sharp and fast breaths doing nothing to compensate the black spot dancing in Dean's vision.
*Tell him... or I will return*
It was the last thing Dean heard before he found out that he could move once again. He bolted out from the bed, covers falling around his feet, chest heaving from lack of air and terror.
Dean looked around. He was alone.
There was no point in running to the bathroom to puke out the nausea he could feel climbing up his throat once again. The smell of vomit and sex was already all over the room. He just had strength enough to turn his head to the side and retch all over the floor between the two empty beds.
/(O|O)\\
The Cahuilla man had been less than forthcoming with Sam. Not that he was expecting the old man to just spill all of his tribe's knowledge and secrets to the first strange that sought him out with baloney stories of Anthropology thesis and comparative studies of Northern Native American societies. But he had surely hoped for a little bit more than the small talk he got.
They had talked for a long time, mostly so that Chief Ahtuapu could have his fun watching Sam -in his tee shirt, over shirt and denim jacket-, sweat a month's worth of water inside a still too hot from the day's heat, tin-can trailer, while he sat comfortably in his shorts and sleeveless shirt.
Ahtuapu had talked about everything, from his people's Aztec origins to the last Rangers' game. It was only when a very frustrated Sam was preparing to leave that the Chief surprised him by mentioning the gifts Mukat gave to certain people, special people, and how very fortunate Sam was for being one of them.
Frozen on his spot, Sam had tried to get the dark skinned man to explain what he meant by that, but Ahtuapu had merely suggested that he should return the following day.
Sam knew he was being played. The native man wasn't even trying to cover it up. But the true measure of the desperate man was how far behind he would leave his own pride. And Sam was beginning to be desperate enough.
He arranged to meet the smirking man at the same hour, the following day, and drove back to the motel where he'd left Dean.
The lights were out in the room, but Sam had expected as much. After his close encounter with heat stroke and being tossed and twirled around by a frigging sandstorm, Dean had been pretty much whipped on his feet by the time Sam dragged him to bed.
The encouraging sound of snoring was, however, absent when Sam got in. Not that Dean usually snored because, fortunately and for both their sakes, none of them usually did... under normal circumstances.
Sam snored like a 'damn freighter train', as Dean put it, whenever he had a cold, which, as Sam had tried to explain over and over, was a normal reaction to having your sinus completely clogged and not a plot to stop your older brother from getting some decent shut eye.
Dean, on the other hand, snored 'like a pig' when he was exhausted.
Which was why Sam had prepared himself for a night in blank, listening to Dean's ruckus sleep.
The silence was oddly disturbing. And the further Sam entered the dark room, the disturbing the whole thing got.
The place stunk.
There was some rotten smell hanging in the air like a living thing, which, allied to the strong smell of vomit, managed to congest all breathable air inside the room and make breathing a very gagging experience. It also worked pretty fast to push Sam into the panicked concept that something was very, very wrong.
"Dean?" Sam called out as he clicked the ceiling light on, the concern for a possibly dead-by-drowning-in-his-own-vomit brother overwhelming the reluctance of startling a perfectly healthy and slumbering brother.
There was no one dead in his own puke. Just the same as there was no one to startle.
The bed where he'd left Dean was empty, sheets tussled up, skewed and half on the floor; the threadbare pillow was tossed aside, white pillowcase looking darker from sweat. There was a pile of yellowed vomit by the bed, which Sam guessed to be the responsible for one of the foul smells in the air.
"Dean?" Sam called out again, softer this time, discouraged, as he knew that there was no one there to answer him.
The room was pathetic small to try and hide a six foot one man.
Sam checked the bathroom, just in case, but found it as empty as the rest of the room. The panic Sam had managed to force down when he'd flipped the lights on and wasn't met with a vision of Dean, not breathing, on his bed, surge anew, stronger than before, impossible to ignore or be put on a leash.
Dean had been dead on his feet when Sam left, practically unable to even put on his own clothes; he'd obviously been sick in between then and now; and he was missing.
A million theories crossed Sam's mind, from the Hellhounds coming sooner than what they were supposed to; to someone they'd pissed off recently, coming into the room and taking Dean to get revenge; to Dean's temperature spiking out of control and him taking off, chasing some fever-induced hallucination
Sam paced the room, blaming himself for leaving his brother alone after all that had happened that day. He should've stayed there, kept an eye on Dean's temperature, make sure that there were no lingering side effects from the heat stroke.
Instead, he'd gone to meet with a man who'd spent most of his time mocking Sam and being of no help at all.
Sam searched the room. Dean's boots and leather jacket were gone and he couldn't see Dean's wallet or cell anywhere.
If Dean had been taken against his will, his kidnappers certainly wouldn't concern themselves with footwear and warm clothing. And if his temperature had risen high enough for Dean to become delirious and wander off on his own, he wouldn't think to stop and take his wallet and cell phone with him.
So, wherever Dean was, it looked more and more like he'd gone by his own free will and choice.
Which did nothing for Sam's concerns.
Because Dean should've stayed put and resting, not wobbling around doing God knew what.
At that time of the night, without his car, there were only a couple of choices available anyway. Dean was either taking a long walk by the side of the road -which Sam didn't see happening even if Dean was extremely delirious- or he shopping for china dinnerware -which was slightly more possible than being kidnapped by aliens.
There was nothing around there, no place to go, and Sam couldn't come up with one good reason why his beat-up and exhausted brother would've even left his bed.
Remembering the pile of puke by the bed, Sam figured that maybe, just maybe, Dean had gone out in search of some pharmacy, or convenience store, or frigging soda-machine, to get something to calm his obviously upset stomach.
Sam hope that, if that was the case, Dean brought back enough for two, because the store across the street had been closed when Sam had passed by, and he didn't even recalled seeing a pharmacy anywhere in town.
Silently praying that this was nothing but a silly over-reaction on his part, Sam opened his cell phone and hit Dean's number.
It was like ridding a rollercoaster of emotional ups and downs. The fact that there was actually a ringing tone was hopeful; the reality of the damn thing ringing more than five times before anything happening, was threatening to send Sam's heart into another race to despair. When someone finally answered the phone, Sam was ready to scream.
"Hello?"
"WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU, DEAN?" Sam found himself saying -screaming- at the phone piece before it actually registered that the voice on the other side wasn't Dean's. "Who the hell is this?"
There was a sigh on the other side, the muffled sound of thump-thumping music and several voices, traveling through the void of answers.
"Told you to leave it the fuck alone!" Sam heard more clearly over the rest of the noise. There was a loud sush! that hurt his ear and then the initial voice was back.
"Hum... this is Steve... you coming to pick your buddy up?"
Sam changed the phone from his right to his left hand. His fingers were sore from grabbing the thing so tightly. The guy was making little sense, like he was expecting Sam to know exactly what he was talking about. From the background clinking of glass, Sam could guess that he was talking from inside some bar. Had Dean gone out to drink?
"Where's the guy who this phone belongs to? Is Dean there?" Sam tried again.
"Look, I don't know the guy's name, I don't even know if it's his phone or if he stole it from someone. All I know is that he's passed out on one of my tables and the phone was ringing on his hand. It's closing time and I'm not in the mood to give shelter to bums. You coming to pick him up or do I just toss him outside 'til he sobers up?"
'Steve' sounded pissed enough to do just that.
"I'm coming. What's the name of the bar?"
//(o|o)\\
The Blue Oyster bar.
Trust Dean to, of all five bars within walking distance of the motel, pick the one with a rock band's name. The blue neon sign above the door, with the opening and closing oyster seemed straight out of a Family Guy cartoon rerun.
The place was already mostly empty, which made it extremely easy for Sam to locate his drunken brother, passed out on the corner table that faced the front door.
The bald giant behind the counter, pointing a long and chubby finger in Dean's direction as he spotted Sam's searching look, helped some. Mainly for Sam to identify the giant as Steve, the pissed off caller.
Sam nodded his head, acknowledging both the directions and the call, and made his way to Dean.
There were four empty beer bottles and a straight line of five shots decorating Dean's table. One of the shot glasses was still clutched between Dean's lax fingers. Dean's silver cell phone was poised on the tabletop, next to the empty ashtray.
Sam closed his eyes. What the hell had possessed his brother to get drunk on this day out of all others? Wasn't he beaten enough? Did he really need to add alcohol poisoning to everything else?
"Hey, Dean... come on dude... I already carried your sorry ass once today. Don't start making a habit out of this," Sam called out, shaking Dean's shoulder.
The second Dean's eyes moved and he registered the feeling of fingers wrapped around his arm, Dean's right fist came up swinging. Shot glass still trapped in his fingers and all.
Taken by surprise, Sam threw his body back, almost falling on top of the next table. The knuckles of Dean's fingers passed a couple of inches from his nose. The sour smelling remains of scotch inside the glass landed perfectly on Sam's face
"What the hell, man!?" He blared, whipping his dripping nose with one hand.
Dean's eyes, almost black in the dimly lit bar, crossed over his nose before settling into a somewhat focus on Sam's face.
"Sammeee... wa'... wat ya doin' heer?"
Sam shook his head. It wasn't often that Dean plastered himself in such manner. No control over his limbs and tongue, no control over his actions and leaving himself vulnerable in the company of strangers.
Not to mention that it usually took a lot more than a couple of beers and shots to get Dean to that point. Either the table had been clean of the rest of the empty bottles at some point of Dean's drinking bender, or Dean was worse off than Sam had figured.
Either way, the sight of his brother's unfocused and trusting eyes weighed heavily on Sam's chest. Dean drank to celebrate; he got drunk to forget.
And Sam could make a pretty good guess on what Dean was currently trying to forget. In fact, he was surprised that it had taken this long for Dean to allow himself a couple of hours of -albeit sick as dog- oblivion.
Living with the crushing weight of a countdown for a trip to Hell was something that Sam couldn't even bring himself to imagine.
Though he could hardly condone the fact that Dean had chosen to get drunk on the very same day that he'd gotten himself already badly dehydrated from the desert heat, Sam certainly couldn't condemn.
So, he gently fought Dean's fumbling arms, got him wrapped around his leather jacket, paid his bill and steered him to the passenger seat of the Impala with minimum fuss.
Dean wasn't much of a talker when he was drunk. Either because he'd trained himself to keep his mouth shut and not spill any beans about the family business and their affairs when he was drunk in the company of strangers, or merely because he simply wasn't a talkative drunk.
This time though, Dean was talking like gossiping old lady, like his self-imposed tongue block had somehow been eroded by too much stress, too much trouble bearing on his soul. He wasn't making much sense, though.
"Fuckin' batman... fuckin' fuker fuckin' peoples liv-I hate 'im, ya know... I mean... fucker!"
"I thought you liked Batman, Dean," Sam offered, joining in the inane conversation, knowing for certain that, come sobriety the next day, Dean wouldn't remember a word. "What happened to the 'best superhero ever'?
"Not Batman, Sammeee... baaat man... Batman's aw'some... bat man is a moth'r fucker!"
Sam chuckled. That part hadn't changed. Dean didn't talked much when he was drunk, but the few words he said, were always colorful enough to make a seasoned sailor blush.
"'m gonna be readee Sammee... if he com's back... 'm gonna be readee... punch a hole in t' black fee'ry fucker, y'll see!"
Whatever sense that had made in Dean drunken brain, he looked like he'd said too much. Or was going to be sick again.
Sam turned on the blinkers, ready to stop the car and let Dean out to puke. It took him a couple of minutes to realize that the hand Dean had thrown in front of his mouth to cover it, wasn't because he was on the verge of being sick, but because he was physically stopping himself from saying anything else.
The drive was short and soon enough, the neon 'vacancy' sign of their current 'home' came in to view.
Dean, hand still draped around his mouth, stiffened on the seat next to Sam.
"What we doin' here?" He asked, sounding strangely sober.
Sam gave his brother a sideways glance as he pulled the car into park. "It's our motel Dean... we' re here to sleep... remember that? The thing you were supposed to be doing instead of getting shit-faced?"
"'m not goin' n'there," Dean said resolutely.
From the arms crossed over his chest to the determined line his mouth set across his sunburned face, Sam thought his brother looked more like a five year old throwing a tantrum than a grown-up drunk being pig-headed.
"Quit being an ass," Sam warned him, getting out and closing the door on his side.
He walked around the front of the car, waiting to hear the squeaky sound of Dean's door opening up. In the cricket filled silence of the night, there was no squeaky sound of more doors. Looking inside the car, Sam could easily see his brother, eyes drooping and head nodding in exhaustion, but arms still crossed, resolutely sitting inside the Impala.
Sam gauged his options. It was getting ridiculously late, and the last thing that he wanted was to draw unwelcome attention to them by forcibly dragging Dean out of the car and into the room. Not to mention the fact that he wasn't all that trilled either to get back to a room that smelled as bad as that one.
Letting out a dramatic sigh, Sam fished the room key from his pocket and, glancing one last time to check if Dean was really going to stay put in the car, set off to pack their things. Guess he could always find them another room further down the street. 'Mr. Fisher' would be paying for two rooms instead of one tonight. Which sucked for him.
TBC
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