Amria Chapter Two
As I was walking up the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today.
I wish, I wish he'd go away.
~Hugh Mearns~
utji
1998
The little sparrow had escaped its metal cage, and was attempting to fly through the tiny gap in the open window. It fluttered, thumped against the glass, desperate to fly free.
Eventually after several draining attempts the bird gave up and sprawled on the wooded counter below. Bella stroked its small underbelly, watched it’s flustered wings flap and wiggle under her hand. She pressed down with her palm, tilted her head and remained still for a few seconds. Eyes piercing and cold.
She broke her stare and smiled at the squawking bird. Placed down her cup, slopping tea onto the counter, mutely reached over to her bag and picked up a pair of scissors, offered a few fast snips into the air. Slicing clank of metal still resonated through the room. Her eyes widened with glee and she poised the scissors over the bird, with the palm of her hand she pressed out the right wing revealing smooth brown feathers. She hummed mindlessly as she snipped away.
The bird bucked, squealed and flapped vigorously at first. By the time she finished off on the left wing, it was almost completely still with only the minute rise and fall of its tiny silver belly.
Satisfied she released the bird from her grip and unwound the brown coil of hair she’d attached to its small leg.
Bella turned her attention to the door and snarled. She mumbled some words in Rom and packed everything away, taking the lifeless bird and placing it into a cloth that she folded a couple of times and placed into a metal tin.
She gathered the mess of feathers on the counter and opened the window. She unfolded her palm and blew.
Sam leaned back against the headboard, closed his eyes and listened.
He heard the pipes rattle and groan when shower turned on; the spray of water as it hit the tiles, the shower door creek open, then close.
His shoulders loosened and relaxed.
A minute or two after Dean had gone into the shower Sam heard a muffled deep voice came from the bathroom. Sam’s eyes scanned the room, focused on the bedside table where Dean had left his cell. He sat up and frowned.
“Dean?”
There was no response.
Sam stood and waited for the room to stop spinning, rubbed his eyes lethargically. He was heading close to over forty eight hours without a decent night’s sleep.
Sam reached the door and placed a sweaty palm on the handle, retracted it almost immediately. It hadn’t even been five minutes; he needed to back the fuck off, give Dean space. They needed to talk this one out, not argue. Sam moved away from the door, was half way across the room when he heard a colossal smash followed a spine-chilling silence.
2004
On the third day after his father left, Dean got out of bed and made it into the shower. The fluorescent light hurt his eyes so he left the door open and washed in partial darkness. The water was warm and felt good against his skin. He hadn’t remembered feeling anything for the last couple days. Even when he’d fallen off the bed and smacked his head against the bedside table, he still felt-numb.
Dean ran a hand over the stubble on his jawline. He didn’t bother shaving, didn’t see any point. But he brushed his teeth and pulled on a fresh shirt and pair of jeans. After tucking his gun in the small of his back, he slipped into his jacket and opened the door.
Dean almost made it out that day.
He saw the Impala parked a couple of feet away, its metallic finish glisten invitingly under the sun. The same sunlight that stroked his face briefly before a crisp sharp breeze assaulted his lungs, and a loud pitter-patter of footsteps approached, making him recoil and take a step back. He slammed the door shut, kicked it hard enough to splinter the wood and slammed his fists into the door before he sank to the ground and cradled his head on his knee.
He survived on jerky and bourbon malt whiskey-- the good kind. The shit his dad bought for special occasions. Dean wasn’t sure of much as he sat on the dirty motel floor but he was sure that the events of the last few days qualified as a special fucking occasion. It wasn’t everyday you got ditched by a family member.
It was the fifth day, when his rations were finished and his funds maxed out that he was left no other choice than to starve and get evicted or leave the room. Starving had crossed his mind. Dean made it to reception and scrambled up enough to pay his overdue bill. He briefly went back, checked out and packed the Impala.
Next priority on his list was money, which he didn’t have much of. He walked to the small bar in town, cased it and set his sights to hustle himself enough to get the hell out of dodge.
That was his plan. That wasn’t the way it played out.
Dean stayed in Nebraska for over a month.
2010
The air was hot, humid, and smelled like motel soap. The shower was still running, its shattered glass door broken into jagged teeth. The floor was covered in more broken glass, small puddles of water, and lots of blood. His brother’s, rigid motionless body lay on the floor. Sam rolled Dean onto his side. He had a cut running the length of the back of his neck, curving from the base of his ear to just above his shoulder. Blood shone on his skin, his mouth was partly open, and his eyes were glassy.
There was so much blood.
Sam grabbed a towel and applied pressure onto the leaking wounds. The transition between Dean on the floor to Dean on the bed happened in a matter of minutes. Sam put it down to pure adrenaline, anything else would be a miracle and he wanted--hell--needed to save those for later.
The towel was tainted pink by the warm bloody water he used to clean his brother’s cuts.
An hour had passed since he’d found Dean a quivering mess on the bathroom floor. Dean was covered with water burns and broken glass.
Hospital was out of the question. They had been and needed to staying below the radar.
Sam gently dabbed the seeping cuts on Dean’s neck, a couple would need stitches but his main concern were the burns that covered a majority of his back. He took the opportunity to dress and apply the remainder of burn cream they had, when Dean passed out.
The stitching turned out to be a bitch or maybe that was him?
Bobby talked him through some parts over phones not because he didn’t know what to do, Sam had been patching up since he could remember. It was simply because he needed the hand-holding …Bobby-style. A gruff commanding voice that threatened him into action, grabbed his quivering nerves by the balls and swung him in the right direction was exactly what he needed. He needed it and had no shame in admitting it to the old guy. Partly because…it was Bobby, and partly because he was too exhausted to get his game face on, so as soon as he’d heard the gruff voice on the other end answer, he just came out and said it; “I’m losing it here, Bobby.” Loud and clear and shamefully fragile. If it was anyone else he would have been embarrassed by the how bare his statement had been but Bobby being Bobby replied in the best way possible; “Get a grip of yourself, kid, it ain’t gonna stitch it self.”
Sam’s hand shook the whole time. He was beyond exhausted. The small sounds released by his comatose brother were sending him over the edge. Sam had already given Dean a shot of morphine. It knocked Dean out into a drug-induced slumber almost immediately but after an hour the effects were already wearing thin. So were their pain meds. Sam slid the waste bin close to Dean’s bed and settled in a chair.
He had a feeling he was in for a long night.
It was around two in the morning when Sam woke, orange digits of the alarm clock illuminating the room. He’d fallen asleep on the wooden chair and the ache in his muscles sang through his body.
Dean was still lying on his stomach same way he’d held left him but it was clear to Sam that Dean wasn’t asleep, not completely.
“Dean?”
His brother didn’t respond. Dean’s breathing was hitched and erratic and his hands were fisted into the pillow.
Sam stood and moved towards the bed. “Hey.” He placed a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder, careful not to apply any pressure. “I’m gonna give you something for the pain, okay.” Sam said. He walked into the bathroom and retrieved a glass that he rinsed a few times and brought to the bedside table. Sam held up and flicked the last packet of soluble aspirin they had from when he’d broken his jaw, it was also their last form of pain relief. He frowned. The effects would only last for three maybe four hours if Dean managed to keep it down. The stuff tasted like shit but it was all they had. That would take them up to six am when Sam could catch a nearby store opening. He poured the contents into the cup and swirled. “Okay, let’s get you sitting up.”
Dean took a sharp intake of breath; he grimaced as pain bubbled through his body. “Son of a bitch.” Was the response he got followed by some groans and suppressed yelps of pain as he man-handed Dean to a sitting position.
“Dean?” Sam’s asked patiently.
Dean let his head fall forward helplessly, like a rag doll. Dean held his breath and reached for the cup in Sam’s hand. He blew out and took a sip. Sam watched intently, waited to see if was going down and staying down.
Dean paled and turned a sickly shade of green. They sat in silence for an hour and forty five minutes. Sam was at the foot of the bed, while Dean rested his head against the wall and hummed. It was faint, faltered under his bated breathe, but it wasn't long before it sent them both to sleep. Sam managed an hour and a half. He watched the shapes and shadows form across the motel floor through gaps in the curtain. Before he grabbed his coat and slipped into his shoes, he checked, double checked and made sure he left Dean on a salt protected bed with his gun and blade.
Sam glared into the room before he closed the door behind him. He’d be quick he told himself.
He was cold and his back hurt.
Dean peeled his lids open, blinked a few times and saw the water-stained ceiling. A whoosh-click sound of the air con ticking away in the background drew his focus across to the other side of the room. It was dark and everything around him smelled like metal and antiseptic -the smell of hospital without the whitewash walls and echoing corridors.
The bathroom light was on but the room was empty. He knew it just like he knew Sam wasn’t the shadow standing in the corner of the room.
“Dean, Dean, Dean, alone at last.” Sounded like him.
“I have a feeling you’ve been avoiding me?” Looked like him.
“That would make you a coward as well as a dick.” Punched like him too, with a ferocity that knocked him for six off the bed and half way across the room.
Dean concluded he had a mean right hook. He'd thought it before, his aching jaw and throbbing face confirmed that fact. Another upper-cut to the chin had him scattering across the floor towards the bathroom. The blows were doing damage, strength drawing from the whole body, soft knees, weighted swing, just the way their father had trained them. Right amount of power that broke noses, crack ribs and disabled the opponent.
He was knocked out for a few seconds, disoriented, nauseated and woozy. The first thing that caught Dean's attention was heavy drumming footsteps echoing towards the bathroom.
The footsteps came to a halt, he could sense the man standing over him, in fact the man seemed so close suddenly that he could feel his breath on his face… Cold and damp.
When the person who looked like him mounted his back, straddled him keeping his pinned to the ground, his head was pulled back by his hair, the pinch on strained follicles made the cuts on his forehead seep. A warm, sweet, coppery drizzle flowed from his broken nose into his mouth and cascade over his chin.
“Sammy’s such a killjoy.” Dean heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps, the jangle of keys, followed by a rustle at the door. He released a gargled yell that resulted in his head contacting the floor. Hard.
Sam was at the door when Dean yelled out in pain.
The sound of his brother’s voice, panicked and distraught, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand.
Sam didn’t know how many times he’d called out for Dean. He crashed through the door. They were lucky no one had called the police, yet. He didn’t remember what he’d said when he saw Dean laying on the bathroom floor. There was blood smeared across the tiles, the walls, and handle. So much of it he could taste the metal tang in the air. He’d been gone just under ten minutes. Ten minutes apparently was all it took to take his brother apart. Again.
With a shaky hand, Sam slid himself under Dean’s head and shoulders. Elevated him slightly to clear his air way, Dean's nose fountained blood. He used his index finger to make sure his mouth was clear and then he sat and waited. Dean vomited up what felt like a liter of blood before he could cough, splatter and breath freely. His Jeans were soaked and the floor was a mess.
Dean’s breath started coming a little faster and Sam could see a pulse at his throat jumping even in the low light. He was alive, beaten to shit, but alive. At that moment he was gonna grab on to that fact with desperate clinched fingers, it was only then that he released he was rocking.
Sam gently laid his brother on his side and stood. He drew his gun and checked the room once more, safety off and finger on the trigger, ready to take out anyone or anything. There was nothing but blood and sweat and more blood. So much of it.
Sam had the doors, windows and Dean’s bed salted in under a minute.
He’d re-dressed Dean’s burns, did what he could with the new cuts, stemmed the bleeding and medicated Dean enough to have him relatively comfortable. As comfortable as a broken man could be.
It was around noon when Sam broke the silence.
Dean eyes were closed but the pace of his breathing revealed he was awake. Sam cleared his throat. His brother gave him a blank stare.
He returned the gaze. “How you feeling?”
Dean struggled to speak with one side of his mouth bruised and swollen. “Shit.” He managed.
“Thought as much,” Sam nodded. “Can’t give you anything for at least another hour.”
Dean responded with something the sounded a combination of a groan and whimper. It had Sam up and headed to the mini fridge for the icepack. Sam watched him for a moment, lifted his eyebrow and waited. When nothing came, he spoke.
“So, erm. It wasn’t a spirit, or demon?” there was a pregnant pause. “Definitely not an illusion.” Sam said, he shook his head and sat opposite Dean. He leaned forward and held his face in his hands. “I’m just trying to get my head around this.”
Dean sniffed and cupped his nose. He remained silent which worked as an answer for Sam who took it without further question. They simply had no fucking clue.
While Dean tried his best to look like he was eating, he had to get something in his stomach if he wanted more meds, Sam called Bobby. Even though he tried to keep it together, apparently the tone of voice spoke louder than his actual words. Bobby agreed to fly over that same night. Said that he'd pick up Missouri on the way.
Sam didn't argue. He ended the call and wondered if they could make it through night.
2004
The air was pungent with a mix of aromas; heady wine, smoldering wood, charcoal, and wet foliage. It was a cool, breezy night with clear skies but it had rained the night before and the sponge-like ground gave under his boots, seeping a brown liquid with every step. He slipped a few times but it didn’t slow his pace. He followed the music through thick scrubs that led towards towering silver maples and then towards a stream.
When his feet reached the edge, he stood still and scanned the horizon.
“You’re late.” Clammy fingers clasped over his eyes. He felt the warmth of her body as she pressed against him from behind.
Dean smiled, pried her small hands away and clasped them tight as he turned towards her. He drew her close, kissed her long and hard on the lips. The kiss left a tang of fermented berries in his mouth, he licked his lips.
“You started without me.” He replied with a grin.
She smirked and held up the bottle of wine. “There’s plenty left.”
The empty bottle fell to the ground, rolled towards the nearby stream.
They stood under the cover of a tall tree.
She tasted sweet and salty. He caressed her bare neck and shoulders, moved down to the knotted bow that held the front of her dress together and tugged hard revealing her bare chest. She tilted her head up and gasped as he kissed her. She gripped the hooks on his jeans and pulled on them.
Like play-fighting kittens, they rolled on the ground until they were covered in sweat and dirt.
"It takes more than fucking someone you don't know to keep warm." That statement was no longer true as far as Dean was concerned. Sophia did more than keep him warm. He may as well have been laying on satin sheets or fluffy down. The sex left him so high he could have been levitating off the ground. Endorphins coursed through his veins, made his muscles pulse and tremble with excitement.
She touched his cheek with warm fingers. "You're hurting."
Dean smirked at her and shook his head. She trailed a finger to his left side, tapped on his chest. “In here, you are.” She stated, kissed him tenderly. Took his hand and placed it against her bare chest. “Mine too.”
Dean’s smile melted. He removed his hand, and kissed her, moved lower to kiss her chest.
“What is the opposite of two?” She didn’t wait for a response. “A lonely me and a lonely you.” Her wine soaked lips curled into a smile as her cheeks turned rose-red, she broke her gaze for a second, letting her hair fall over her face.
“Let’s be lonely together.” She whispered. Dean was about to say something in response but the words dispersed before they vocalised.
Sophia placed her hand on his chest and closed her eyes. It was becoming a strange habit. It was definitely odd, sometimes awkward but at the same time pleasant. He felt her warmth and it felt good. She said it helped her connect.
Dean connected his lips to hers, pulled her closer as they rolled in the dirt.
2010
Sam was in the can when it happened again.
Five maybe six minutes after he went in, the room got darker, literally. And cold. The air around him thinned and his chest burned from the lack of air. His brain felt like it was about to explode. The sensation made him want to pass out, puke and spontaneously combust all at once.
A cold blade was placed flush against his left cheek. His own blade, the same freshly sharpened blade that was resting under his pillow for protection was now used against him. Dean froze, drew in his lips and controlled his breathing. He thought about his reflexes, whether he’d be fast enough but his hands were still shaky and his vision was blurred.
“Don’t even think about it.” The voice behind threatened. “You’ll haemorrhage to death before Sammy can get to you. And what will be the fun of that?”
Dean got to feel first hand just how sharp his knife was. The cut was fairly clean and minor in regard to his other injuries but it wasn’t painless. Severed nerves pulsated, ached and bled uncontrollably.
He barely heard Sam come out of the bathroom. His eyes were closed but he could feel the applied pressure on the cuts, Sam must have been on the phone because he was talking to someone, they all sounded far away.
Soon everything sounded a million miles away which suited him fine because he just wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep. Sleep was calling him.
Dear Diary,
I have a friend.
Oh if you knew what it meant to me.
I didn’t think it possible to be so close with someone who wasn’t family but this man…is everything I’ve needed, and I think right now, he needs a friend too. Each of us with one wing, embracing one another until we’re ready to fly alone again. Sparrow and Finch. Elegant yet Fierce and undeniably beautiful.
Our chemistry is electric, we’ve talked, laughed, cried and we’ve made love countless times, each time better than the last. His mouth, his lips, I can't stop looking at him.
It's funny, at times I can see for miles, I can know so much I shouldn’t know, but never could I have dreamt it would feel like this.
Today I told him about the bottle, I opened up and let me see, all the unspeakable things. He read silently for hours, tattered page after page I handed over to him, he read patiently and it’s been the closest we’ve been. I didn’t tell him about the troubles with Bella. I wanted to leave that for another day. If there will be another day, Dean may be a hunter but he and his family are alot like us; travellers, neither here nor there and home is wherever work and family takes them. His family means everything to him, right now he misses and needs them so much. Maybe he can share mine for now.
When I’m with him I don’t feel so broken, or so alone. I only wish Bella would see how good he is for me.
I know she will in time, it's such a shame it’ll be too late.
Sophia
~
Chapter Three
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