Supernatural fic
Title: “Phobos”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG
Timeline: Season 2, shortly after John Winchester’s death.
Summary: Dean encounters the ghost of fear. Please R&R!
Disclaimer: belongs to CW, Eric Kripke and whoever else that is not me.
Special thanks: to Marilena for suggesting the title.
A/N: Just a little random ficlet. Dean rarely shows his sensitive side, and I like it when they act like normal brothers, so… I hope I managed to keep them relatively IC.
PHOBOS
Dean hated being wrong. And Dean hated being endangered because he had been wrong even more.
“Look into the eyes of your fear,” the ghastly figure before him sizzled.
And Dean broke down.
He sank down on his knees, his eyes and his ears bleeding, and the salt-loaded gun slipped out of his grip. He vaguely remembered having argued with Sam about the methods of eradicating this particular ghost. Sam insisted that the ghost could not be eliminated, only banished temporarily. ‘It’s fear, Dean,’ the smartass had said. ‘And fear cannot be killed.’
Dean wouldn’t listen. They had dealt with far more complicated spirits before - at least, in his opinion. What did it take to vanquish the ghost of fear? To stop being afraid. And Dean was pretty sure he wasn’t afraid of anything. Not anymore.
‘You’re wrong,’ Sam had tried to reason with him. ‘You’re afraid of flying.’
‘There won’t be any planes there.’
‘You’re afraid to…’
‘What!? Come on, doctor, what is it that I’m afraid of?’ Dean had blown up. Simply absurd! ‘Obviously you know me better than I know myself!’
Now Dean wished he’d have listened to his brother.
The ghost drew near. Stunned, Dean couldn’t find the strength to move. The dirty rags were brushed aside, revealing the greyish face swarming with maggots. They stirred in the sift flesh, peeling off the shreds of skin. Dean wanted to shut his eyes, but his body was paralyzed.
‘Not frightened…’ Dean thought desperately. ‘Seen more than this, much more… Shit, Sammy, where are you?!’
“Look,” the grave whisper crawled along his skin. “Look, and you shall see.”
Dean looked. He forgot his confrontation with Sam. Sam was right. There was no way to kill this ghost.
And Dean looked because there was little else he could do. Vague fragments of memory shot through his mind. The smell of chocolate; a female voice; a baby’s cry. A gunshot. A scream.
“Stop,” Dean murmured, appalled at how weak and pleading his voice sounded.
“No,” the figure in front of him breathed. “It never stops.”
Fear bore into Dean’s heart. It trickled up his fingers, streamed within his body, flowed in his blood. Air stuck in his throat. Dean couldn’t breathe past the tears of blood that streamed down his cheeks.
He was so weak, so tired. If he could only fall asleep, then he wouldn’t be afraid anymore. Dean’s eyelids grew heavy.
The ghost’s face began to change. He failed to notice when the ugly swarm of greyish insects vanished, replaced by the dark face of John Winchester. Dean would have gasped if he could utter a sound.
“You knew this was going to happen,” the ghost said in an abominably even voice, so much unlike his father’s.
The floor seemed to be melting underneath Dean. He was sinking. The darkness condensed around him. John grinned infernally.
A gun fired in a volley somewhere above him.
Dean sank.
* * *
Slowly he dived out of the vast, clinging nothing. His senses were coming back in tidal waves.
One - smell. Scents crashed over Dean like a sea: dust, blood, rain outside the empty shack.
Two - perception. Every bone in his body ached as if it was broken. He lay on the hard wooden floor, and someone was shaking him lightly.
Three - hearing.
“Dean! Can you hear me? Oh come on! Wake up!”
“I hear you, Sammy,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
And finally - vision. His brother’s face contorted with worry above him. It brightened into a smile as soon as Sam made sure everything was all right.
Dean sat up. The pain gradually subsided. He was very tired but alive and well, considerably.
“Where did the bitch go?” he asked.
Sam moved aside. Dean’s eyes fell upon a blurred pentagram drawn in chalk over the dusty floorboards. In the center of it was a black scorched mark. Dean snorted.
Soon their car dashed through the night. They kept quiet. Dean didn’t feel like discussing what had happened; Sam didn’t feel like asking any questions. They stopped at a small café at a petrol station. Finally Dean felt a little warmer. Cold still buzzed on the tips of his fingers. He rubbed his hands together and ordered a cup of hot chocolate. Sam gaped at him.
“What?” Dean snapped.
“Nothing. It’s just-.”
“It’s just that you have a stereotyped mind,” said Dean, scrutinizing his brother over the steaming cup.
Heat traveled through his body. Dean stopped shivering. His entire organism reacted to the fear seeping away. A sharp intake of breath made Sam look up from his coffee and survey his brother critically.
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Sam, please! I’m perfectly fine. What do you want me to say? Thanks for saving my life? Shall I give you a hug, too? This hunt is hardly any different from hundreds of others. Why are you so crazy about it?”
“You almost died,” Sam said, compressing his lips.
“One of us is always close to dying!”
The younger Winchester slammed his fist into the table. Dean stifled a sigh of exasperation.
The night dissolved into a pale-orange sunrise as the brothers drove on. Sam tossed in the passenger seat, falling asleep at odd moments, grunting and flashing Dean occasional concerned looks. The older Winchester stared determinedly at the road, grasping the steering wheel tightly. Sometimes the cold returned. Dean would tremble and struggle to hold his breath not to disturb Sam.
“Why don’t you just admit it frightened you?” Sam asked. At last! Mr Psychoanalysis is back. Dean chuckled to himself. “It was the ghost of fear, Dean. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“So that’s what’s bugging you!” Dean looked at his brother, grinning. Sam drilled him with a hard, blazing look. His smile faded.
Dean pulled over and tapped on the control panel with his fingers. His voice came out hoarse and shaky when he spoke.
“I wasn’t really afraid until that bastard assumed Dad’s face.”
“What!?”
“Yeah, precisely. That’s when I really freaked out. I mean, after…” Dean managed a weak shrug. “Just at the very wrong moment.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and sat immobile for a minute. When he looked back at Sam, he was already the regular Dean Winchester who smiled sardonically and said: “Well, happy? You got your confession.”
“Despite what you might think, it’s not my goal in life to turn you into a snotty wimp or whatever you’re afraid of.”
They laughed heartily. Dean started the car, and it moved forward slowly. The debris screeched beneath the tires.
“Well, go on, finished the sentence,” he suggested. Sam arched his eyebrows curiously, unaware of the point of these words. Dean snorted. “You said you knew what I was afraid of. Apart from flying. Enlighten me.”
The car got up speed. Dean tuned in the radio and caught one of the old Metallica hits.
“To lose me,” Sam murmured after a moment of hesitation.
Finally Dean got warm.
May 7, 2007