Spiritual Possession, Chapter Four/Six
Title: Spiritual Possession 4/6
Rating: T (for Teen...or whatever)
Characters: Sam and Dean and Father John
Word Count: approx. 9200 (total)
Summary: Dean couldn't get angry with Sam. After all, he'd hurt the kid worse before. (Mostly PreSeries...but slips into a tag to Asylum at the end)
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three
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Dean's skull throbbed. It reminded him of the morning after his father had let him drink himself sick. He'd puked a hell of a lot that following morning. But something was more wrong than a few too many shots of whiskey, Dean was sure. He was just trying to convince himself he needed to open his eyes. He slid a little and his eyes shot open as he realized he was seated in a chair. He'd fallen asleep in the kitchen?
"What the..." he began as he tried to sit up straight and realized his hands were cuffed behind his back, looped through the back of the chair so he was attached to it. As he looked down to try and figure it out, he noticed the red on his shirt and he froze. It wasn't his blood. His pulse quickened as images came back to him. Images of him and Sam and a knife. "Oh fuck..." he whispered, trying desperately to get up. He needed to find his brother. He needed Sam to be okay.
He stood with the chair attached and it banged loudly into the table, causing him to stumble back a step and into the wall near the doorway to the living room. He jumped and spun when hands closed around his shoulders.
"Whoa," John said quickly, holding up his hands as he watched his son stumble back, the chair on the floor again. Dean's eyes were wide in fear and confusion and his father knew whatever had held him in the mill had left.
"Dad!" Dean gasped. "Where's Sammy!?" John contained his flinch as he moved forward, key in hand to unlock Dean's cuffs. As soon as Dean was free, he stood, grabbing onto his father's arms. "Where is he?" John heard his son's voice crack for the first time in years and he moved his own hand to rest on Dean's shoulder.
"He's sleeping." Dean sagged back into the chair in relief.
"I didn't kill him?" he whispered shakily. John shook his head and squeezed Dean's shoulder.
"You cut him up a fair amount," John wasn't about to sugarcoat it for his eldest. "But he should be okay."
"Thank god," Dean muttered, rubbing his hands over his face before he looked at his father again. "I need to see him." John nodded in understanding and stepped back as Dean stood. He followed after his son.
Dean stood frozen in the threshold of his bedroom, eyes fixed on Sam's figure, illuminated slightly by early morning light. Sam's face was turned away, but Dean could tell it was pale. He was covered to just above mid-chest with a blanket, but Dean could see a couple of the bandages poking out. Seeing the slight red spot through one of the bandages, Dean gagged and turned quickly, pushing past his father. John sighed as he heard his son retch in the bathroom and stepped back to the kitchen.
Dean was trembling when he finally stood, flushing the toilet before he moved to the sink to rinse his mouth out and wash his face. His hand shook as he turned off the faucet and he jumped at the sound of wood creaking, turning quickly to see his dad in the doorway. John silently held out a cold can of Sprite. Dean took it and gratefully took a swig, letting it help get rid of the rancid taste in his mouth that water alone hadn't been able to conquer.
"You all right?" John drawled, leaning against the door frame as Dean slid down to sit on the tile, back propped against the tub.
"I..." Dean shivered visibly and John frowned. Stepping into the bathroom, he reached under the cabinet for a towel before turning to kneel and wrap it around his son's shoulders. Nothing would get solved if Dean went into shock.
"I almost killed him," Dean whispered. John took the can of soda away from him as Dean's hand shook more. "I can remember what it felt like to..." Dean swallowed hard and closed his eyes. "To pull that knife out of him."
John's jaw clenched. It was like Dean's first human kill all over again. The man had been psychotic, and Dean had killed him in self defense, but it'd almost broken the young man. One of the only rules in the Winchesters' book was 'don't kill humans', and Dean almost hadn't been able to handle breaking it. It'd taken nearly a month before John could get him to even touch a weapon again. Almost two before he went on another hunt. And that had barely been a year past.
Dean tensed as John sat next to him, putting an arm slowly around his son's shoulders. Physical signs of comfort were virtually non-existent in the Winchester household, but John had long ago realized they were sometimes necessary. He waited until Dean relaxed slightly before speaking in the low voice he'd only ever used for his sons.
"Sammy's gonna be just fine," John promised. "He'll sleep a couple of days and be back to annoying the hell out of us." Dean shivered slightly. "He knew it wasn't you, Dean," John said softly. He felt his son stiffen next to him. "Made me take care of you just as much."
"I'm supposed to look out for him," Dean whispered, somewhat miserably. John sighed and pulled his son closer. He hated that it had been him who'd enforced such responsibility in Dean. It was a necessary evil of their lives.
"You do, Dean. I know that. Sammy knows it. You're always saving his ass." Dean took a shaky breath.
"How did you know to come?" Dean asked in a quiet voice. John frowned, knowing his son was bottling his emotion yet again. Not that he wanted his son to be as outwardly emotional as a teenaged girl, but he recognized there were some times emotion was necessary. John had seen too many of his buddies in the Corps suffer from their inability to express fear, hate, sadness or even joy.
"I had to stop by the Clarke home in Peyitville before I could go to the school," John began. "When I was leaving, Mrs. Clarke made a comment about it being a shame the mill was even still standing in the first place. I asked her why and she told me a story...you know the kind, her daddy handed it down from his daddy." Dean nodded slightly and John moved his arm away, knowing his son would be shrugging it off in a minute anyway as he got a deeper grip on himself.
"That used to be a farm," John continued. "Back around the turn of the century, two brothers lived there. One of them had a family and actually owned the land, the other just stayed there. It seems the older brother, the one who owned the farm, got fed up with the younger brother one day. Cut him up so he bled to death. The bastard was so distraught afterward, he went into the house, told his wife what he'd done, and slit his own wrists. The wife couldn't stop the bleeding.
"They tore up the farm a few years later, built the mill. But Mrs. Clarke said part of the reason they left that site was too many of the descendants of that farmer protested it's place on what had been their family's land. As soon as she mentioned 'brothers' though..."
"You thought of Sam and I?" John nodded.
"I drove as fast as I could. Neither of your phones would even ring through."
"No signal," Dean muttered.
"I'm glad I got there in time." Dean assumed he just meant in time to stop the older brother from killing the younger. John didn't know how to say he'd feared the loss of both his sons. There was no doubt in his mind what Dean would have done to himself if he'd realized he'd killed Sam, possessed by a spirit or not.
John looked at his son's profile and saw the new bruise that was joining his already swollen eye. He winced sympathetically, knowing he was responsible for it. "You should get some rest," John said. Dean gave him an incredulous look and John stood, holding out his hand to pull Dean to his feet. "I was getting ready to go to bed myself when you started thumping around the kitchen. Your brother's resting fine; there's no reason to stay up worried."
Dean looked nervously in the direction of the bedroom he shared with Sam and John sighed. "Go to my room." Dean looked at him quickly. "I'll use your bed. But this ain't gonna be a permanent fix, got it?" Dean nodded absently and pushed past his father to pick up the Sprite can from the sink before he headed on down the hall to the master bedroom.
John sighed and ran a hand over his tired face. He knew the only thing that was going to fix Dean was Sam, and the kid just wasn't up to it yet. John stepped into his sons' bedroom and took the few steps to Sam's bedside, knowing it was time he woke him up for a check anyway. He shook his son gently and Sam's eyes flew open as he drew in a sharp breath.
"Easy," John said in his low voice, watching as Sam visibly relaxed at the sound of it. "Tell me something so I know your brain's still intact." Sam rolled his eyes and John would've accepted that as answer enough. After several concussion watches, the Winchesters had gotten bored with the general questions and decided they weren't really all that important.
"You need a shave," Sam grumbled, closing his eyes again. John smiled and patted his knee.
"Yeah well...you need a haircut." Sam groaned a bit as he slipped back to sleep. John kept his smile as he stretched out on Dean's bed on the other side of the room, keeping mindful of the knife he knew Dean kept under his pillow.
TBC in Chapter 5
Rating: T (for Teen...or whatever)
Characters: Sam and Dean and Father John
Word Count: approx. 9200 (total)
Summary: Dean couldn't get angry with Sam. After all, he'd hurt the kid worse before. (Mostly PreSeries...but slips into a tag to Asylum at the end)
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three
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Dean's skull throbbed. It reminded him of the morning after his father had let him drink himself sick. He'd puked a hell of a lot that following morning. But something was more wrong than a few too many shots of whiskey, Dean was sure. He was just trying to convince himself he needed to open his eyes. He slid a little and his eyes shot open as he realized he was seated in a chair. He'd fallen asleep in the kitchen?
"What the..." he began as he tried to sit up straight and realized his hands were cuffed behind his back, looped through the back of the chair so he was attached to it. As he looked down to try and figure it out, he noticed the red on his shirt and he froze. It wasn't his blood. His pulse quickened as images came back to him. Images of him and Sam and a knife. "Oh fuck..." he whispered, trying desperately to get up. He needed to find his brother. He needed Sam to be okay.
He stood with the chair attached and it banged loudly into the table, causing him to stumble back a step and into the wall near the doorway to the living room. He jumped and spun when hands closed around his shoulders.
"Whoa," John said quickly, holding up his hands as he watched his son stumble back, the chair on the floor again. Dean's eyes were wide in fear and confusion and his father knew whatever had held him in the mill had left.
"Dad!" Dean gasped. "Where's Sammy!?" John contained his flinch as he moved forward, key in hand to unlock Dean's cuffs. As soon as Dean was free, he stood, grabbing onto his father's arms. "Where is he?" John heard his son's voice crack for the first time in years and he moved his own hand to rest on Dean's shoulder.
"He's sleeping." Dean sagged back into the chair in relief.
"I didn't kill him?" he whispered shakily. John shook his head and squeezed Dean's shoulder.
"You cut him up a fair amount," John wasn't about to sugarcoat it for his eldest. "But he should be okay."
"Thank god," Dean muttered, rubbing his hands over his face before he looked at his father again. "I need to see him." John nodded in understanding and stepped back as Dean stood. He followed after his son.
Dean stood frozen in the threshold of his bedroom, eyes fixed on Sam's figure, illuminated slightly by early morning light. Sam's face was turned away, but Dean could tell it was pale. He was covered to just above mid-chest with a blanket, but Dean could see a couple of the bandages poking out. Seeing the slight red spot through one of the bandages, Dean gagged and turned quickly, pushing past his father. John sighed as he heard his son retch in the bathroom and stepped back to the kitchen.
Dean was trembling when he finally stood, flushing the toilet before he moved to the sink to rinse his mouth out and wash his face. His hand shook as he turned off the faucet and he jumped at the sound of wood creaking, turning quickly to see his dad in the doorway. John silently held out a cold can of Sprite. Dean took it and gratefully took a swig, letting it help get rid of the rancid taste in his mouth that water alone hadn't been able to conquer.
"You all right?" John drawled, leaning against the door frame as Dean slid down to sit on the tile, back propped against the tub.
"I..." Dean shivered visibly and John frowned. Stepping into the bathroom, he reached under the cabinet for a towel before turning to kneel and wrap it around his son's shoulders. Nothing would get solved if Dean went into shock.
"I almost killed him," Dean whispered. John took the can of soda away from him as Dean's hand shook more. "I can remember what it felt like to..." Dean swallowed hard and closed his eyes. "To pull that knife out of him."
John's jaw clenched. It was like Dean's first human kill all over again. The man had been psychotic, and Dean had killed him in self defense, but it'd almost broken the young man. One of the only rules in the Winchesters' book was 'don't kill humans', and Dean almost hadn't been able to handle breaking it. It'd taken nearly a month before John could get him to even touch a weapon again. Almost two before he went on another hunt. And that had barely been a year past.
Dean tensed as John sat next to him, putting an arm slowly around his son's shoulders. Physical signs of comfort were virtually non-existent in the Winchester household, but John had long ago realized they were sometimes necessary. He waited until Dean relaxed slightly before speaking in the low voice he'd only ever used for his sons.
"Sammy's gonna be just fine," John promised. "He'll sleep a couple of days and be back to annoying the hell out of us." Dean shivered slightly. "He knew it wasn't you, Dean," John said softly. He felt his son stiffen next to him. "Made me take care of you just as much."
"I'm supposed to look out for him," Dean whispered, somewhat miserably. John sighed and pulled his son closer. He hated that it had been him who'd enforced such responsibility in Dean. It was a necessary evil of their lives.
"You do, Dean. I know that. Sammy knows it. You're always saving his ass." Dean took a shaky breath.
"How did you know to come?" Dean asked in a quiet voice. John frowned, knowing his son was bottling his emotion yet again. Not that he wanted his son to be as outwardly emotional as a teenaged girl, but he recognized there were some times emotion was necessary. John had seen too many of his buddies in the Corps suffer from their inability to express fear, hate, sadness or even joy.
"I had to stop by the Clarke home in Peyitville before I could go to the school," John began. "When I was leaving, Mrs. Clarke made a comment about it being a shame the mill was even still standing in the first place. I asked her why and she told me a story...you know the kind, her daddy handed it down from his daddy." Dean nodded slightly and John moved his arm away, knowing his son would be shrugging it off in a minute anyway as he got a deeper grip on himself.
"That used to be a farm," John continued. "Back around the turn of the century, two brothers lived there. One of them had a family and actually owned the land, the other just stayed there. It seems the older brother, the one who owned the farm, got fed up with the younger brother one day. Cut him up so he bled to death. The bastard was so distraught afterward, he went into the house, told his wife what he'd done, and slit his own wrists. The wife couldn't stop the bleeding.
"They tore up the farm a few years later, built the mill. But Mrs. Clarke said part of the reason they left that site was too many of the descendants of that farmer protested it's place on what had been their family's land. As soon as she mentioned 'brothers' though..."
"You thought of Sam and I?" John nodded.
"I drove as fast as I could. Neither of your phones would even ring through."
"No signal," Dean muttered.
"I'm glad I got there in time." Dean assumed he just meant in time to stop the older brother from killing the younger. John didn't know how to say he'd feared the loss of both his sons. There was no doubt in his mind what Dean would have done to himself if he'd realized he'd killed Sam, possessed by a spirit or not.
John looked at his son's profile and saw the new bruise that was joining his already swollen eye. He winced sympathetically, knowing he was responsible for it. "You should get some rest," John said. Dean gave him an incredulous look and John stood, holding out his hand to pull Dean to his feet. "I was getting ready to go to bed myself when you started thumping around the kitchen. Your brother's resting fine; there's no reason to stay up worried."
Dean looked nervously in the direction of the bedroom he shared with Sam and John sighed. "Go to my room." Dean looked at him quickly. "I'll use your bed. But this ain't gonna be a permanent fix, got it?" Dean nodded absently and pushed past his father to pick up the Sprite can from the sink before he headed on down the hall to the master bedroom.
John sighed and ran a hand over his tired face. He knew the only thing that was going to fix Dean was Sam, and the kid just wasn't up to it yet. John stepped into his sons' bedroom and took the few steps to Sam's bedside, knowing it was time he woke him up for a check anyway. He shook his son gently and Sam's eyes flew open as he drew in a sharp breath.
"Easy," John said in his low voice, watching as Sam visibly relaxed at the sound of it. "Tell me something so I know your brain's still intact." Sam rolled his eyes and John would've accepted that as answer enough. After several concussion watches, the Winchesters had gotten bored with the general questions and decided they weren't really all that important.
"You need a shave," Sam grumbled, closing his eyes again. John smiled and patted his knee.
"Yeah well...you need a haircut." Sam groaned a bit as he slipped back to sleep. John kept his smile as he stretched out on Dean's bed on the other side of the room, keeping mindful of the knife he knew Dean kept under his pillow.
TBC in Chapter 5