Fic: Good Day Sunshine (5/5)
Title: Good Day Sunshine
Author: judith_88_g
Rating: R (language, whump)
Genre: Gen
Characters: Dean, Sam, a tiny bit of Bobby, OCs
Spoilers: Up to 2x01, set in early season 2
Word Count: 6,400 (21,00 total)
Disclaimer: Still not mine, don't lose my hope though.
Summary: Sam and Dean receive an unexpected phone call and learn that one of John's old friends has been murdered. They set off to investigate his death, the case, however, turning out to be much more than just a simple salt'n burn, stirring the memories that, in Dean's book, are better left forgotten.
A/N: I took some liberties with location as well as the lore. The title comes from The Beatles' song.
A/N 2: Beta'd by a lovely astute spangielka, whose support, Sober Eye of Reason, and uncanny insight into a boy called Sam Winchester have been of inestimable value, and also by a very helpful rubystandish who put the story into the right shape, treading bravely over the steaming cinders of my grammar. All remaining mistakes are of course all mine.
Previous: I, II, III, IV
V.
Shit, Dean, just answer the damn thing.
“Leave a m…” Sam aborted the connection abruptly only to call his brother once more.
Maybe he didn’t hear it.
Unconscious people rarely do.
Fuck!
With a phone tucked between his cheek and shoulder Sam rushed to get his jeans and quickly started pulling them on, almost falling flat on his face as the bed tried to monkeywrench his hastened effort. He was halfway buttoning up when a loud rap at the door shook the interior. Before he had a chance to wonder who or what it might be the shouting solved the mystery for him.
“Police, open the door!”
Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me!
The timing was just perfect. Sam scanned the room for any possible escape routes. The only window looked over the parking lot, right next to the fucking door. Think, Winchester! In a fraction of a second he dashed into the bathroom throwing away his clothes and dialing a number, the phone once again pressed tightly to his cheek with a shoulder. He ran the water. The laptop was still on, no time to do anything about it now. Not good. But not calamitous either. Another rapping at the door and Sam could swear that it was more urgent this time. There will be no third try.
“911, what’s your emergency?” Finally!
“I’d like to report a bar fight. I’m in Barney’s Roadhouse, a group of people, a few of them have knives.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
When he heard the door being forced open, Sam was already standing in the shower feeling the scalding water beating against his skin, the now broken phone jammed among the rags of his clothes lying on the floor, the card somewhere in the waist-pipe.
“What the hell?” He spluttered wearing his best shocked face. Considering the fact he was standing naked with two guns pointed at him and the water obscuring his vision, Sam didn’t have to try very hard.
“There’s our agent.” It was the sheriff they had met on the crime scene. Almost happily, he gestured with his gun for Sam to step out of the shower.
“You’re under arrest for impersonating a federal agent, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.” The younger guy slurred out the memorized formula in one breath as he cuffed Sam’s hands behind his back.
“So where is your boyfriend, huh?” The sheriff asked with that southern drawl, turning the water off and spreading Sam’s clothes on the floor with his boot.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” he huffed squatting down and lifting up the broken phone showing it to his partner with a meaningful look.
“I bet you just dropped it.”
Sam looked at the sheriff but didn’t say anything.
Apparently, the old man didn’t expect him to as he continued, “Funny, how you and the pretty one came to the town right with the murders. I’ve never been big on coincidences, ya know?” He seized Sam up with a stern gaze. “Anyway, we gonna have lots of time to discuss it. Ned,” he turned to the younger man.
“Let’s go,” he said to Sam wielding his gun like a conductor’s wand. He couldn’t be a good shot, not with that shaky grip. On the other hand though, it’s not that difficult to hit a target standing only inches away.
Sam swallowed hard. “You mind?” He asked the sheriff, motioning towards the lump of his clothes decorating the dirty floor.
The old guy nodded to his partner rather than the prisoner and Sam felt his hands being uncuffed. Gratefully, he dressed quickly only to have his wrists immobilized again.
He didn’t have time for this shit, he really didn’t.
***
He couldn’t move. It felt as if a million needles pinned him down to wherever he was. His eyes were shut tightly, cutting him off. Maybe if he kept them closed long enough the fire in his chest suffocating him would disappear, favorably, together with the rest of the world. He tried to catch a breath, desperately opening his mouth and feeling the much needed oxygen cutting its way inside. He couldn’t stop a cough that followed, the aggravation seized his chest with a flame burning blindingly white behind his closed lids. How long could suffocating take, anyway?
“Enjoying yourself, there, Dean-o?”
This voice, he knew this voice. Dean tried to open his eyes but the lids felt too heavy to lift.
“Do as you would be done by, isn’t that how it goes?” Was that a hand on his cheek? He wasn’t sure. He tried to understand what the voice was saying, it was important what it was saying. However, the meaning got lost between the sounds. Was it getting darker?
“Come on, be a good boy, open your eyes for me.”
The touch felt more distinct. Dean parted his lids but the light dazzled him. He tried again and the blurry image of the familiar face cut against the cozy living room started to form in front of his eyes sending a cold tingle down his spine. The promise of the sweet oblivion seemed to wither away as everything clicked into the right place.
“There you go,” the praise in the voice was lined with playfulness. “You don’t want to lose all the fun, do you?”
He was so screwed.
***
He knows , sprang to Sam’s head. This suspicious look, he knows.
“Ned,” the sheriff’s voice was directed to his partner; however, his gaze was piercing through Sam. “Call Tom, tell ’im to get ’is shit ready. You and him will check the roadhouse. But first drive me to the station.”
Sam wanted to breathe with relief but stopped himself - no point in giving the guy anything else to go on. It wasn’t the first small town he’d visited and, fortunately, turned out not to be very different in terms of police officers on duty. He had hoped that the fight would drag the sheriff himself, this Ned guy looked much easier to manage, but the old man was apparently persistent in keeping an eye on his main suspect. Ok then, the sheriff it was, not that Sam had much of a choice.
His little diversion plan had worked, the problem was the time. He was determined to push the worry away as it helped neither him nor Dean, but the unwanted images just kept jumping to his head making it almost unbearable to sit still and wait. Sam’s palms hurt from clenching and the panic was boiling right beyond the surface earnestly clawing its way outside. For all he could tell, the car was moving in slow motion. Sam knew perfectly well where the police station was, as well as the nearest hospital and all the other places of strategic importance - a habit drilled into him to the point of unconditional reflex, Dad could congratulate himself. They should have already got there. Or maybe not? Maybe it was just Sam’s mind playing tricks on him? He wasn’t so sure.
After what seemed like eternity the car finally ceased to a stop. Sam worked on autopilot - get out of the car, get into the building, cell, hands, hard bench or was it bed? Didn’t matter, he wasn’t staying for the night. The sheriff said something to Ned and some new guy, Tom, probably, however, Sam couldn’t really distinguish any words from where he was, and just like that they were gone. The first part of the plan completed, now was the time to figure out the second one.
He examined the cell looking for any weak points that would give him a way out; however, without satisfactory results. Sam couldn’t see the whole of the old man but enough to know that he was sitting at a desk, his back hunched, probably writing something down and waiting with the interrogation for his men to return, which was more than Sam had expected of him. As far as he could tell there were no other people present. The situation was surreal, native to some old western flick - the Prisoner, the Sheriff and the dark night outside. There should be whistling in the background and tumbleweed rolling down the streets of Wellton, Dean would have a field day.
Dean.
“It’s not what you think it is, sir,” Sam started lamely hoping to engage the sheriff somehow.
“I think you were flashing a fake FBI badge,” the old man didn’t even turn around, “or maybe you’re sayin’ me n’ my man were hallucinating?”
“Yeah, well, that part may be. But there’s more to it, sir,” Sam hit the desperate tone with the ease that was surprising even for himself. “Me and my brother are really investigating Dave Bronston’s death, he was kind of a family friend, and we think that it is linked to Mandy Oak’s case.”
“Brother, huh?” Ok, the sheriff turned to face Sam, good.
“That’s right, sir. And I think, he’s in trouble now.”
The sheriff’s brows flew high on his forehead in a condescending look, “And what kind of trouble would that be?”
“I’m not sure but I think the vetala attacked him,” the words fell heavily from his lips but they gained the aimed result, the sheriff stood up and walked slowly to the cell, self-complacency shining in his wrinkled face as his prisoner turned out to be less of a sharp and more of a chatty type. It was clear the old man didn’t want to lose the opportunity to get the whole scoop.
“Why would anyone want to attack your brother? You just wanted to help your friend, didn’t you?”
“Yes, that’s true. But this vetala, you see, it’s a demon, well, sort of, but it’s as evil as they come. And me and my brother are trying to stop it.”
The sheriff was standing right in front of Sam, sizing him up. His expression changed. “Stop a demon?” He asked incredulously.
Sam couldn’t conceal the bitter grimace as he said the words he had opposed so fiercely, “Somebody has to.”
There was a moment of silence, the sheriff staring at Sam with something indistinguishable in his face. “Jesus, boy, you really believe that.”
“Looks like,” Sam smiled unhappily and dashed towards the bars, his hands reaching the target and pulling the man close before he had any chance to take out a weapon. His head bounced against the metal bars but it turned out to be insufficient to knock the guy out so Sam repeated the movement putting in it all the strength he could muster in this position and finally felt as the sheriff’s slack body slipped down from his hands to the floor.
Sam felt for the key. There was blood on the man’s temple. There was the key in his pocket. Sam opened the cell hastily and examined the sheriff lying on the floor. He was already coming to, which was in equal measure unnerving and reassuring. Sam took his gun. Somewhere on the periphery of consciousness he noticed that his hands weren’t trembling in the slightest and for some reason it felt wrong.
He didn’t even know the name of the man he had left behind half-conscious in a locked cell.
***
“I have to admit, I’m really glad to have you here. You’re such an entertaining little creature.”
He has to do something. Can’t just lie here.
“From day one I knew we would get along. You’re so much fun.”
But he’s a hunter, a human being. It was supposed to be about killing things.
“Sure, we had some misunderstandings but I believe, you’ve learnt your lesson.”
God, it hurts.
“Hunting is all about killing…”
Kill him. You gotta kill him. It needs to be done. It’s about saving people.
“…and killing is all about dying.”
It shouldn’t be that easy, making people die. He was a hunter, he should’ve known better. You don’t play with that sorta things. It was his choice. But it’s Dean’s finger on the trigger.
“You understand it now, don’t you?”
The shot is deafening. He feels dizzy. The gun slips from his fingers but he can’t hear when it hits the ground. He can’t see the other guy anymore. Even Dave’s voice died. Everything around is muffled and blurred like that time at the bottom of the pool when he bet he would stay underwater for two minutes. For a fraction of a second he even expects his father’s firm hand to pull him to the surface. It would be so good to breathe the clear air. But Dad is the one who sent him here, he wants him here, he’s not going to take him away. It’s a lesson. It’s about doing the right thing. Why does it feel so wrong, then? God, it hurts.
***
Sam thought he should have probably switched the car for another one, misguided the pursuit. Instead he just pressed the gas pedal in a hot wired old ford - it was the luxury he couldn’t afford at the moment. He easily fled the boundaries of the town and maneuvered the vehicle on a dirt road leading up to Shannon’s house. The suspension was sending loud warning as the car was jumping on the bumpy ground and Sam wondered briefly what he would do if the old beater decided to fall apart in the middle of the desert. He willed himself to banish the thought and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
The sight of the house sent a cold feeling down Sam’s spine. The lights inside were off and the place looked deserted. With some difficulty, Sam could determine the svelte shape of the Impala parked in front. He drove up close, not really caring that he might be spotted. Leaping out of the car, he rushed towards the Impala, or rather to its trunk, to grab some weapons more suitable for the occasion than the sheriff’s gun. Dean will kill him for what he was about to do but the pressing lack of time didn’t leave room for any subtleties, like carefully picking the lock for example. Besides, right now, Sam would welcome his brother’s childish fury over the maltreatment of his baby like the best fucking thing in the whole Universe. It wasn’t until the black car was within the reach of his hands that he realized the lid had been severely dented and the lock smashed as somebody, or something, had opened it with great force. Sam blinked at the violation trying to shake off the panic peaking up with new ferocity and gripping him by the throat.
Stifling the ill-timed feelings, he rummaged through the contents of the trunk. The arsenal was still there, or at least the substantial majority of it, Sam didn’t have the time to determine what might have gone missing. He took the flask of holy water, a handgun, and a matching round of bullets -consecrated silver - together with the repelling spell he’d found should do the trick. He loaded the gun and headed to the house not sparing another look to the damaged lid.
The silence was suddenly cut with a shot echoing in the empty desert. Sam gave an involuntary start at the noise, sprinted for the front door and snapped it open.
“Watch out!” It was Shannon, standing in the kitchen threshold, a shotgun in her hand.
On instinct, Sam turned around; however, too late to see what Shannon’s target was. He was sent to the floor with a forceful blow to his back and almost at the same time the second sound of discharge filled the room.
“Well, what do we got here? Another party crasher?”
Sam groaned as his shoulder protested against being smashed on the tough surface and rolled over to see where the voice was coming from. He could see an obscure silhouette next to the front door but it was too dark to discern anything more than the outline. And there was the smell. The smell of half rotten death making him feel hazy. Apparently, the vetala’s new suit was long past the expiration date.
“I kinda hoped for some quality time with my boy here but after all, who would say no to a bash like that?”
With a corner of an eye, Sam registered the shape of a body half hidden behind the couch and the image sent a new wave of blinding fear slither down his back. He was about to shout; however, his brother’s name died on his lips when he felt another blow, to his ribcage this time, forcing a guttural grunt through his gritted teeth instead. He didn’t even have a chance to see the aggressor. The world spun dangerously. Somewhere in the background he heard Shannon’s scream.
“S’mmy?” The voice was hoarse and quiet but it was Dean’s, and it immediately grounded Sam back in the reality. He could feel the reassuring cold touch of metal underneath his fingers.
“Dean?” He yelled scrambling to his feet and moved towards the lump on the floor. He scanned the room but both Shannon and the vetala were nowhere to be found.
“Dean!” Sam screamed once again as he reached his brother, his breath coming in jerky gasps. Dean grabbed a fistful of Sam’s shirt and used it as a leverage struggling to a sit, the effort accompanied by a muffled groan. “Hey man, you ok? Where did it get you?”
“Imma kill ’is sonuva…”
Sam didn’t hear the end of Dean’s statement as he was once again thrown away. His wrist snapped with pain when he’d landed on it with his full weight. He didn’t have a chance to find his bearings as a steel rim tightened around his throat, lifted him up and smashed against the wall.
“Didn’t your momma tell you that it’s not nice to play with somebody else’s toys?” Right in front of himself, Sam saw an awfully deformed face he remembered from visiting the morgue. Dave. He tried to break the grip but it was deadly solid. “Oh yeah, right,” the thing’s features contorted in an abominable imitation of a smile, “I forgot she didn’t have a chance.”
“G’n!” Sam choked. He didn’t feel the touch of it in his palm anymore, he must have dropped it. The edges in his vision started to smooth ominously.
The shot reverberated in his ears leaving the ringing echo even when the grip loosened and Sam fell to his hands and knees spasmodically catching the breath. There was an animal-like howl followed by another shot, and another, and another, the sounds merging into cacophony that seemed to be piercing through Sam’s skull like a drill. Unable to stand up just yet, he forced his eyes open to take in the situation. Not far from him, lying on the floor was the vetala; Dave’s battered body twitching convulsively under the downpour of bullets in a terrifying travesty of a dance. Striking the rhythm of the discord. The image was sobering enough. On the other side of the room, awkwardly propped on the side of the couch with one arm, in a half-sitting position was Dean, the glock in his hands.
“Dean,” Sam tried to yell but the voice came strained and weak and croaky. “We got it.”
The volley didn’t stop.
“Dean!”
No reaction.
Then, just like that, the noise broke off. The clip was empty, the bullets gone. All seventeen of them. Jesus. In the silence that fell the clicking of the trigger felt much more misplaced and disquieting than the recent scream of discharge.
Sam pushed away the unidentified feelings threatening to transfix him. With some difficulty, he climbed to a wobbly stand and moved towards his brother who still seemed oblivious to anything apart from the inert body. The mark. Sam squatted down next to him and reached out for the gun.
“Hey, man,” he said placatingly, “It’s gone, it’s over.”
Dean’s hold on the gun was steady but the rest of his body was trembling - whether it was from the effort, the pain or something entirely different, Sam didn’t know. Dean lowered the glock to his knees but didn’t ease off the clutch around the grip. His frame slumped down slack against the side of the furniture.
“Dean, you alright?”
His brother’s lids fell closed, he didn’t react, didn’t give a sign he had heard anything.
“Dean!” In this fucking darkness Sam couldn’t even see the injuries his brother might have. “You with me, man? Look at me!”
“’M fine.” The words were spat out in a strained tone, all teeth.
“Ok, easy. It’s ok, it’s going to be ok.”
“Shan’n?”
Shit, Shannon. “I don’t know where she is. I can’t see her. Where does it hurt?”
“Ches’”
“Anything broken?”
“Dunno, maybe, yeah. Can’ breathe”
“Jesus. Ok, just don’t move. I’ll finish this.” Sam motioned to grab the barrel of the glock lying in Dean’s laps, “I got it, just stay still.”
Dean’s fingers were still tightly woven around the metal.
“It’s ok, man, I got it,” Sam repeated mildly.
“Fuck you.” The words were ripped out tensed and grainy, and consisted the sense of blank coercion that made Sam let go of the gun.
“Listen, I’ll go find Shannon and there’s a spell I gotta say. Just stay still, ok? I’ll be with you in a second and then we’re out of here.”
“Mhm”
***
Sam’s eyes were jumping from the people stomping nervously in a hospital hall to the ones sitting slumped on plastic chairs, and finally to nurses, seemingly rushing in all possible directions. The place struck him as too bright, too busy, the chair too small to accommodate his size. Sam was floundering in desperate attempts not to look suspicious and stop his nervous roving glances, but it seemed his reserves of stamina had been dried up for the night. They should be out of town by now but with Dean’s injuries Sam didn’t want to risk any complications. Damage to the internal organs was the last thing they needed right now. Even the potential arrest was coming second. So, Dean was having an X-ray and Shannon was being examined, which left Sam confined to this chair for the time being.
Back in that house, when he had finally found an opportunity to switch on the light, the sight had turned out more than he had been willing to handle. Dean’s white shirt hadn’t been white anymore but dirty and torn and bloody. His face pale and swollen, eyes shut tightly. One of their shotguns, salt round, that’s what had been missing from the Impala’s trunk. Fortunately, Shannon had been in a better condition; dilated pupils and a massive headache had seemed a simple diagnosis to Sam. She had been conscious and only slightly confused, hadn’t complained about anything else.
The drive to the hospital had been quiet for the most part, quiet being a relative term because his brother’s labored breathing had sounded like a fucking jackhammer in Sam’s head.
“Dave…?” Shannon’s uncertain voice had come from the backseat.
“It wasn’t Dave. It was a vetala, a demon,” Sam had offered. “It just looked like him. But it’s gone and it’s not coming back.”
He’d noticed her nod in the rearview mirror. It hadn’t been a gesture directed at him.
“Was that the same thing that had killed him?”
“Yes.”
“Was that because of what he’d done earlier?”
Sam had hesitated then. Rolling the answer in his head, knowing what he’d known, realizing the weight of it. Still, he’d rather know.
“The past caught up with him,” it had been Dean interrupting in a gritty voice. “Jus’ the way it always does.”
Surprised, Sam had opened his mouth to clarify but the look of Shannon had stopped him. It hadn’t been a relief, not even by a long shot, but in her face he’d seen a possibility that at some point she might be able to deal with it. What he had been about to say could shatter to pieces even that. Maybe, she hadn’t needed all the answers after all.
No, now he thought, she really didn’t.
“We got police on our trail,” he’d said instead forcing his voice to sound even. “We’ll be gone as soon as Dean’s seen a doctor.”
He had expected some battling about the doctor part but his brother hadn’t commented. The walkover had never been something Sam’d counted as a win.
He dragged a hand through his hair and winced involuntarily. His wrist, right. He’d forgotten about it, the adrenaline effectively deadening the pain. Standing in some distance was a teenager holding an arm close to his chest and staring at Sam with curiosity. He reverted his gaze the moment their eyes met. Sam forced his lips to quirk in a reassuring smile although the boy couldn’t possibly see it anymore.
It felt like he had spent days on this chair.
The images of yet another run-off-the-mill hospital day were parading in front of him. Patients, nurses, visitors; the meaningless snapshots of strangers he was never to meet again. He hid his head in his palms cutting himself from the cavalcade, realizing that there was no point, that it had been already done, quite a while ago.
After what he’d said to Shannon, the car once again had been filled with silence. The kind that had been heavy with fear, distress and rush.
“What you did when he was... When it was...” Dean had taken a breath but the pain stopped him. It’d been a while before he’d resumed. “Shooting the son of a bitch. Was brave, and, thanks.”
Sam had seen Shannon’s face in the rearview mirror, it was filled with horror. “There’s nothing I can..." She’d shaken her head, tears had streamed down her cheeks. “You... I should be the one thanking you.”
“It’s ok,” Sam had said absent-mindedly not losing the sight of the droplets of sweat covering his brother’s gaunt face. “It’s what we do.”
He lifted his head. The hospital was still there, not paying any attention.
***
One fractured rib, flesh wounds on the chest from the salt-shot, numerous bruises. Some anti-inflammatory drugs, tramadol, if the pain got bad. Rest.
Sam didn’t drive back to the motel. A few pieces of clothes, even his laptop, weren’t worth the risk. Nomadic lifestyle and a few valuable items left behind had taught them to keep what was important in the car, not that there were many things that could be counted as such. They still needed to go back to Shannon’s house, though. Burn the body. Erase all the evidence that they had ever been there.
Sam cursed himself the moment the Impala’s wheels left the asphalt and hit the bumpy dirt road. He should have seen the job through but had been too preoccupied with his brother’s condition to think about anything else apart from going straight to the hospital. But that was then and this was now. Dean didn’t say anything, just set his jaw and closed his eyes. Sam could see his knuckles go white on the door handle.
By the time they reached the house Dean was pale and panting. Shaky, shallow breaths. He didn’t even look at the wooden construction when the car halted to a stop and Sam left the vehicle promising his brother to be quick.
There was no funeral pier. No hunter’s last respect. Just some salt, kerosene and fire at the back of the house filling Sam’s nostrils with the characteristic sharp scent. He could still smell it when he got back to the car.
“He gone?” Dean asked quietly, lifting his head, eyes wandering dazedly. He must have dived into some of the good stash; his posture looked more relaxed, slumped against the Impala’s door didn’t give the usual bigger-than-life impression. Sam didn’t miss the choice of pronoun.
Seventeen bullets, he thought.
“Yeah, it’s over. Try to get some rest.”
Dean nodded, closed his eyes and soon caved in to a restless sleep.
***
“Hey man, let’s just get you to bed, ok?”
Dean shifted at the sound and immediately regretted the movement as it slashed his chest with hot white pain sucking all the air out of his lungs.
“Easy, just breathe through it.”
“Fuckin’ tryin’,” he gasped, surprised at the gravelly sound of his voice. He felt the cold sweat cover his forehead.
“Here, take this,” he felt something being pushed into his palm. Two round pills. Thank fucking Christ.
He dry-swallowed them.
“How far?” Dean croaked, opened his eyes but scrunched them up at the brightness of the day.
“Clayton. New Mexico.” Sam was outside the car, hovering on the passenger door side. “You ready?”
Dean peeked behind Sam at the red scraped door that hopefully led to their room. Still, it was a long fucking way and the meds hadn’t had nearly enough time to kick in. He was dizzy, the pain was pounding rhythmically in his chest and he felt that any movement might end up in puking, which was bad enough itself, and with a broken rib? Yep, he’d rather avoid that. Suddenly, the Impala’s seat felt like a freaking Ritz.
“I could dance fucking hula as long as there would be some strippers involved,” he breathed with effort and tried for the sly, “if you know what I mean.”
The corner of Sam’s lips quirked up in a small smile. “I think I do. Subtle as the image is.”
“I can’t see no strippers here, Sammy.”
“I bunched them up inside. Come on man, on three.”
On two, Dean was on his feet. A few steps later he was emptying his stomach on the ground feeling as if somebody cut through his interiors with hot iron. Sam was standing right there, holding him up and apparently making sure Dean wouldn’t dive nose first into his own puke, which wasn’t all that unlikely.
“Holy fuckin’,” he gasped when the heaves mercifully subsided.
“Ok. It’s just a few more steps, you think you can make it?”
Dean quashed the need to punch his brother in the face. Instead, he forced his trembling body to move in the direction Sam was pointing. “I swear, they’d better be damn hot.”
***
Waking up was a laborious process but, fortunately, nowhere near as painful as after ten hours in the car. He was sleeping in an almost half-sitting position so he could easily see the bedside table displaying his pills and a glass of water. Gratefully, Dean reached for them extolling his brother’s long-headedness. He slumped back against the pile of blankets and pillows propping him up, bent on giving the meds just as long as they needed to have a proper effect.
When he finally felt the edges of pain smooth away, Dean forced himself out of the bed he only remotely remembered reaching and headed straight for the shower. The water was tepid but he didn’t mind, the streams combined with the motel cheap shampoo making him feel more like his usual self.
Dean gave up the idea of a T-shirt, slowly put on his jeans and a bottom-up, and shuffled out of the room. He had no idea what time it was, it somehow didn’t occur to him to check and now, when he found a bench just outside the door, going back sounded like too much of an effort. It was early morning from the look of it, the sun hanging still relatively low in the bleached sky. He scanned the parking lot but the Impala was nowhere to be found. A woman trying to pack her two small kids into a pick-up was the only sign of life in his sight. The children, two girls, couldn’t be more than five, colorfully dressed and chasing each other around the car reminded him of those little birds he’d once seen on Discovery. Something with rainbow in the name; he remembered thinking that it was a damn good name for the tiny creatures. The warm sunlight grazed pleasantly against his face.
“Hey, Dean, what are you doing here?”
The voice was coming from behind a curtain of haze. He blinked experimentally and caught a glimpse of Sam heading towards him. He must have dozed off. Real smart.
“Waiting for your lazy ass to haul itself here and bring me some coffee,” he answered, cautiously straightening his position.
Sam indeed had a cup in one of his hands, in the other he was carrying a paper bag with some take-out. He regarded the lone Styrofoam container, looked as if he wanted to say something but instead, he just passed the cup to Dean without a word.
Perks of a broken rib, Dean smirked to himself and took a generous gulp of the hot beverage feeling the pleasant warmth fill his body.
“How are you doing?” Sam’s voice was quiet but expectant.
“Man, there’s a mystery of nirvana trapped in that cup,” Dean said lazily.
Sam turned his face to the sun, sighed, “Let’s get inside, you should eat something.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Dean drawled flippantly not moving an inch.
“Dean.”
“Sam.”
“You can’t live on drugs and coffee. And you’re shivering. You wanna catch pneumonia on top of it?”
It was true, his little nap left him all cold and shaky. Still, it wasn’t nearly enough to make him abandon this sun-flooded bench. He put the already empty container aside.
“Whatya got there?” He asked airily, though the very idea of eating caused his stomach to somersault in protest.
Sam looked hesitantly, as if weighing up the possibilities. Finally his resolve seemed to falter and he settled next to him, dived into the bag and fished out two sandwiches. He handed one to Dean. They sat like that for a while, holding the paper-wrapped food in their hands, looking at nothing in particular and warming up in the early sunshine.
“So seriously, man, how are you doing?”
Dean sighed shallowly, attentive to his sore chest. “Took me over ten minutes to dress myself.”
“I’d say that’s a progress.”
“Ain’t got the underwear.”
Sam snorted, “Well, there’s always room for improvement.”
Dean took a bite of the sandwich and chewed it painstakingly.
“So, Shannon’s son, huh?” He asked trying to force the food down.
“Yeah. Only scraps of information left, but from what I gather, the boy was quite a troubled individual. I didn’t even get his name. There was a series of deaths following him, all young girls, all mutilated before decease.”
“The ultimate recipe for a vetala.”
“I think the deaths might’ve been what caught Dave’s attention. He finds out that nothing supernatural stands behind the killings - “
“- he kills the serial killer. Yeah, I figured. But it comes back to bite him in the ass.”
“Designates Mandy Oak as its next target. The ritual must have been an attempt to stop the thing. It fits.”
Dean nodded, engrossed in his thoughts. Killing people to save people, he felt there was a hole in this logic but somehow couldn’t quite pinpoint it. He wondered what he would do, but it seemed there was only one answer for that. Even back at fourteen, feeling the cold of the trigger under his finger, despite everything in him screaming against, it hadn’t been a question of choice. Little ever was. That hunter had crossed the line, playing with darkness that no human should ever have anything to do with. Dean knew that, even back then. Dave and he, maybe they weren’t all that different after all.
“You were right, though. About Dave.”
Sam’s admission caught him off-guard. “I was right about what exactly?”
His brother exhaled the air with a barely audible wheeze, shifted on the bench before answering. “I guess I wanted to believe that there’s a way out, you know. One day. That maybe it’s not all that there’s to life.”
Dean looked at the parking lot, squinting slightly at the sun. “Well, I don’t know much about that. The way I knew Dave? He was the type of a guy you didn’t want to spend with a minute more than absolutely necessary. Still, Shannon must’ve seen more than that. It should count for something.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Sam said in a low voice, no real conviction detectable behind the words.
He was quiet after that, not more interested in his sandwich than Dean was in his. A few cars drove hastily down the street.
“You have a beer in that thing, by any chance?” Dean asked indicating the take-out bag still sitting in his brother’s laps.
Sam looked up, the smart-ass-little-brother expression dancing coyly in his face, “What do you think?”
“Generally? That you’re a hell of a boring bitch.”
Sam smiled, looking more relaxed, but after a while he took a more serious expression. “Listen, about what happened in that house.”
“What about it?” Dean asked too quickly, feeling suddenly tensed.
Sam took a breath and turned slightly so that he was facing Dean. “Whatever it was that you saw back there, it wasn’t there, not really. It was the vetala and it’s gone now.”
“Yeah, I know that,” Dean said with emphasis.
“I’m not sure you do, Dean. The thing is,” Sam paused, shook his head almost unnoticeably. “You’re here, we’re here, and there’s too much crap to fit it all into the Impala’s trunk and drag it around.”
It was a while before Dean answered. “You do realize that you sound like a poor-ass imitation of Yoda, right?”
At that, a small mocking smile loomed in Sam’s features. “And you do realize that you’ve just compared me to Yoda, right?”
“A poor-ass imitation,” Dean corrected pointing his index finger in the air. “Besides, I don’t know what you’re so bouncy about. The guy was little, green and annoying, at least one point where I see the resemblance.”
“Yoda, dude. In your screwed up world it’s like the last word in the theory of existence. You should be grateful for all the wisdom I graciously share with you.”
“Screw you, bitch,” Dean retorted weakly but couldn’t anymore conceal a smile of his own.
The sun was up, the road awaiting; it wasn’t all that bad a manner to get the hold of a new day.
The End
A/N 3: As you've probably noticed the vetala that appears in this story has nothing to do with the one from the Show. The plot for the fic came to me quite a while ago and when the epi aired the story was already half-written. It just took an awful long to finish it. I panicked and wanted to change the monster of the week at first but then decided against it. *shrugs* It just wouldn't have been the same story. Hope it's nothing particularly bothersome.
Also, if you happened to get this far, I'd LOVE to know what you think.
Author: judith_88_g
Rating: R (language, whump)
Genre: Gen
Characters: Dean, Sam, a tiny bit of Bobby, OCs
Spoilers: Up to 2x01, set in early season 2
Word Count: 6,400 (21,00 total)
Disclaimer: Still not mine, don't lose my hope though.
Summary: Sam and Dean receive an unexpected phone call and learn that one of John's old friends has been murdered. They set off to investigate his death, the case, however, turning out to be much more than just a simple salt'n burn, stirring the memories that, in Dean's book, are better left forgotten.
A/N: I took some liberties with location as well as the lore. The title comes from The Beatles' song.
A/N 2: Beta'd by a lovely astute spangielka, whose support, Sober Eye of Reason, and uncanny insight into a boy called Sam Winchester have been of inestimable value, and also by a very helpful rubystandish who put the story into the right shape, treading bravely over the steaming cinders of my grammar. All remaining mistakes are of course all mine.
Previous: I, II, III, IV
V.
Shit, Dean, just answer the damn thing.
“Leave a m…” Sam aborted the connection abruptly only to call his brother once more.
Maybe he didn’t hear it.
Unconscious people rarely do.
Fuck!
With a phone tucked between his cheek and shoulder Sam rushed to get his jeans and quickly started pulling them on, almost falling flat on his face as the bed tried to monkeywrench his hastened effort. He was halfway buttoning up when a loud rap at the door shook the interior. Before he had a chance to wonder who or what it might be the shouting solved the mystery for him.
“Police, open the door!”
Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me!
The timing was just perfect. Sam scanned the room for any possible escape routes. The only window looked over the parking lot, right next to the fucking door. Think, Winchester! In a fraction of a second he dashed into the bathroom throwing away his clothes and dialing a number, the phone once again pressed tightly to his cheek with a shoulder. He ran the water. The laptop was still on, no time to do anything about it now. Not good. But not calamitous either. Another rapping at the door and Sam could swear that it was more urgent this time. There will be no third try.
“911, what’s your emergency?” Finally!
“I’d like to report a bar fight. I’m in Barney’s Roadhouse, a group of people, a few of them have knives.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
When he heard the door being forced open, Sam was already standing in the shower feeling the scalding water beating against his skin, the now broken phone jammed among the rags of his clothes lying on the floor, the card somewhere in the waist-pipe.
“What the hell?” He spluttered wearing his best shocked face. Considering the fact he was standing naked with two guns pointed at him and the water obscuring his vision, Sam didn’t have to try very hard.
“There’s our agent.” It was the sheriff they had met on the crime scene. Almost happily, he gestured with his gun for Sam to step out of the shower.
“You’re under arrest for impersonating a federal agent, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.” The younger guy slurred out the memorized formula in one breath as he cuffed Sam’s hands behind his back.
“So where is your boyfriend, huh?” The sheriff asked with that southern drawl, turning the water off and spreading Sam’s clothes on the floor with his boot.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” he huffed squatting down and lifting up the broken phone showing it to his partner with a meaningful look.
“I bet you just dropped it.”
Sam looked at the sheriff but didn’t say anything.
Apparently, the old man didn’t expect him to as he continued, “Funny, how you and the pretty one came to the town right with the murders. I’ve never been big on coincidences, ya know?” He seized Sam up with a stern gaze. “Anyway, we gonna have lots of time to discuss it. Ned,” he turned to the younger man.
“Let’s go,” he said to Sam wielding his gun like a conductor’s wand. He couldn’t be a good shot, not with that shaky grip. On the other hand though, it’s not that difficult to hit a target standing only inches away.
Sam swallowed hard. “You mind?” He asked the sheriff, motioning towards the lump of his clothes decorating the dirty floor.
The old guy nodded to his partner rather than the prisoner and Sam felt his hands being uncuffed. Gratefully, he dressed quickly only to have his wrists immobilized again.
He didn’t have time for this shit, he really didn’t.
***
He couldn’t move. It felt as if a million needles pinned him down to wherever he was. His eyes were shut tightly, cutting him off. Maybe if he kept them closed long enough the fire in his chest suffocating him would disappear, favorably, together with the rest of the world. He tried to catch a breath, desperately opening his mouth and feeling the much needed oxygen cutting its way inside. He couldn’t stop a cough that followed, the aggravation seized his chest with a flame burning blindingly white behind his closed lids. How long could suffocating take, anyway?
“Enjoying yourself, there, Dean-o?”
This voice, he knew this voice. Dean tried to open his eyes but the lids felt too heavy to lift.
“Do as you would be done by, isn’t that how it goes?” Was that a hand on his cheek? He wasn’t sure. He tried to understand what the voice was saying, it was important what it was saying. However, the meaning got lost between the sounds. Was it getting darker?
“Come on, be a good boy, open your eyes for me.”
The touch felt more distinct. Dean parted his lids but the light dazzled him. He tried again and the blurry image of the familiar face cut against the cozy living room started to form in front of his eyes sending a cold tingle down his spine. The promise of the sweet oblivion seemed to wither away as everything clicked into the right place.
“There you go,” the praise in the voice was lined with playfulness. “You don’t want to lose all the fun, do you?”
He was so screwed.
***
He knows , sprang to Sam’s head. This suspicious look, he knows.
“Ned,” the sheriff’s voice was directed to his partner; however, his gaze was piercing through Sam. “Call Tom, tell ’im to get ’is shit ready. You and him will check the roadhouse. But first drive me to the station.”
Sam wanted to breathe with relief but stopped himself - no point in giving the guy anything else to go on. It wasn’t the first small town he’d visited and, fortunately, turned out not to be very different in terms of police officers on duty. He had hoped that the fight would drag the sheriff himself, this Ned guy looked much easier to manage, but the old man was apparently persistent in keeping an eye on his main suspect. Ok then, the sheriff it was, not that Sam had much of a choice.
His little diversion plan had worked, the problem was the time. He was determined to push the worry away as it helped neither him nor Dean, but the unwanted images just kept jumping to his head making it almost unbearable to sit still and wait. Sam’s palms hurt from clenching and the panic was boiling right beyond the surface earnestly clawing its way outside. For all he could tell, the car was moving in slow motion. Sam knew perfectly well where the police station was, as well as the nearest hospital and all the other places of strategic importance - a habit drilled into him to the point of unconditional reflex, Dad could congratulate himself. They should have already got there. Or maybe not? Maybe it was just Sam’s mind playing tricks on him? He wasn’t so sure.
After what seemed like eternity the car finally ceased to a stop. Sam worked on autopilot - get out of the car, get into the building, cell, hands, hard bench or was it bed? Didn’t matter, he wasn’t staying for the night. The sheriff said something to Ned and some new guy, Tom, probably, however, Sam couldn’t really distinguish any words from where he was, and just like that they were gone. The first part of the plan completed, now was the time to figure out the second one.
He examined the cell looking for any weak points that would give him a way out; however, without satisfactory results. Sam couldn’t see the whole of the old man but enough to know that he was sitting at a desk, his back hunched, probably writing something down and waiting with the interrogation for his men to return, which was more than Sam had expected of him. As far as he could tell there were no other people present. The situation was surreal, native to some old western flick - the Prisoner, the Sheriff and the dark night outside. There should be whistling in the background and tumbleweed rolling down the streets of Wellton, Dean would have a field day.
Dean.
“It’s not what you think it is, sir,” Sam started lamely hoping to engage the sheriff somehow.
“I think you were flashing a fake FBI badge,” the old man didn’t even turn around, “or maybe you’re sayin’ me n’ my man were hallucinating?”
“Yeah, well, that part may be. But there’s more to it, sir,” Sam hit the desperate tone with the ease that was surprising even for himself. “Me and my brother are really investigating Dave Bronston’s death, he was kind of a family friend, and we think that it is linked to Mandy Oak’s case.”
“Brother, huh?” Ok, the sheriff turned to face Sam, good.
“That’s right, sir. And I think, he’s in trouble now.”
The sheriff’s brows flew high on his forehead in a condescending look, “And what kind of trouble would that be?”
“I’m not sure but I think the vetala attacked him,” the words fell heavily from his lips but they gained the aimed result, the sheriff stood up and walked slowly to the cell, self-complacency shining in his wrinkled face as his prisoner turned out to be less of a sharp and more of a chatty type. It was clear the old man didn’t want to lose the opportunity to get the whole scoop.
“Why would anyone want to attack your brother? You just wanted to help your friend, didn’t you?”
“Yes, that’s true. But this vetala, you see, it’s a demon, well, sort of, but it’s as evil as they come. And me and my brother are trying to stop it.”
The sheriff was standing right in front of Sam, sizing him up. His expression changed. “Stop a demon?” He asked incredulously.
Sam couldn’t conceal the bitter grimace as he said the words he had opposed so fiercely, “Somebody has to.”
There was a moment of silence, the sheriff staring at Sam with something indistinguishable in his face. “Jesus, boy, you really believe that.”
“Looks like,” Sam smiled unhappily and dashed towards the bars, his hands reaching the target and pulling the man close before he had any chance to take out a weapon. His head bounced against the metal bars but it turned out to be insufficient to knock the guy out so Sam repeated the movement putting in it all the strength he could muster in this position and finally felt as the sheriff’s slack body slipped down from his hands to the floor.
Sam felt for the key. There was blood on the man’s temple. There was the key in his pocket. Sam opened the cell hastily and examined the sheriff lying on the floor. He was already coming to, which was in equal measure unnerving and reassuring. Sam took his gun. Somewhere on the periphery of consciousness he noticed that his hands weren’t trembling in the slightest and for some reason it felt wrong.
He didn’t even know the name of the man he had left behind half-conscious in a locked cell.
***
“I have to admit, I’m really glad to have you here. You’re such an entertaining little creature.”
He has to do something. Can’t just lie here.
“From day one I knew we would get along. You’re so much fun.”
But he’s a hunter, a human being. It was supposed to be about killing things.
“Sure, we had some misunderstandings but I believe, you’ve learnt your lesson.”
God, it hurts.
“Hunting is all about killing…”
Kill him. You gotta kill him. It needs to be done. It’s about saving people.
“…and killing is all about dying.”
It shouldn’t be that easy, making people die. He was a hunter, he should’ve known better. You don’t play with that sorta things. It was his choice. But it’s Dean’s finger on the trigger.
“You understand it now, don’t you?”
The shot is deafening. He feels dizzy. The gun slips from his fingers but he can’t hear when it hits the ground. He can’t see the other guy anymore. Even Dave’s voice died. Everything around is muffled and blurred like that time at the bottom of the pool when he bet he would stay underwater for two minutes. For a fraction of a second he even expects his father’s firm hand to pull him to the surface. It would be so good to breathe the clear air. But Dad is the one who sent him here, he wants him here, he’s not going to take him away. It’s a lesson. It’s about doing the right thing. Why does it feel so wrong, then? God, it hurts.
***
Sam thought he should have probably switched the car for another one, misguided the pursuit. Instead he just pressed the gas pedal in a hot wired old ford - it was the luxury he couldn’t afford at the moment. He easily fled the boundaries of the town and maneuvered the vehicle on a dirt road leading up to Shannon’s house. The suspension was sending loud warning as the car was jumping on the bumpy ground and Sam wondered briefly what he would do if the old beater decided to fall apart in the middle of the desert. He willed himself to banish the thought and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
The sight of the house sent a cold feeling down Sam’s spine. The lights inside were off and the place looked deserted. With some difficulty, Sam could determine the svelte shape of the Impala parked in front. He drove up close, not really caring that he might be spotted. Leaping out of the car, he rushed towards the Impala, or rather to its trunk, to grab some weapons more suitable for the occasion than the sheriff’s gun. Dean will kill him for what he was about to do but the pressing lack of time didn’t leave room for any subtleties, like carefully picking the lock for example. Besides, right now, Sam would welcome his brother’s childish fury over the maltreatment of his baby like the best fucking thing in the whole Universe. It wasn’t until the black car was within the reach of his hands that he realized the lid had been severely dented and the lock smashed as somebody, or something, had opened it with great force. Sam blinked at the violation trying to shake off the panic peaking up with new ferocity and gripping him by the throat.
Stifling the ill-timed feelings, he rummaged through the contents of the trunk. The arsenal was still there, or at least the substantial majority of it, Sam didn’t have the time to determine what might have gone missing. He took the flask of holy water, a handgun, and a matching round of bullets -consecrated silver - together with the repelling spell he’d found should do the trick. He loaded the gun and headed to the house not sparing another look to the damaged lid.
The silence was suddenly cut with a shot echoing in the empty desert. Sam gave an involuntary start at the noise, sprinted for the front door and snapped it open.
“Watch out!” It was Shannon, standing in the kitchen threshold, a shotgun in her hand.
On instinct, Sam turned around; however, too late to see what Shannon’s target was. He was sent to the floor with a forceful blow to his back and almost at the same time the second sound of discharge filled the room.
“Well, what do we got here? Another party crasher?”
Sam groaned as his shoulder protested against being smashed on the tough surface and rolled over to see where the voice was coming from. He could see an obscure silhouette next to the front door but it was too dark to discern anything more than the outline. And there was the smell. The smell of half rotten death making him feel hazy. Apparently, the vetala’s new suit was long past the expiration date.
“I kinda hoped for some quality time with my boy here but after all, who would say no to a bash like that?”
With a corner of an eye, Sam registered the shape of a body half hidden behind the couch and the image sent a new wave of blinding fear slither down his back. He was about to shout; however, his brother’s name died on his lips when he felt another blow, to his ribcage this time, forcing a guttural grunt through his gritted teeth instead. He didn’t even have a chance to see the aggressor. The world spun dangerously. Somewhere in the background he heard Shannon’s scream.
“S’mmy?” The voice was hoarse and quiet but it was Dean’s, and it immediately grounded Sam back in the reality. He could feel the reassuring cold touch of metal underneath his fingers.
“Dean?” He yelled scrambling to his feet and moved towards the lump on the floor. He scanned the room but both Shannon and the vetala were nowhere to be found.
“Dean!” Sam screamed once again as he reached his brother, his breath coming in jerky gasps. Dean grabbed a fistful of Sam’s shirt and used it as a leverage struggling to a sit, the effort accompanied by a muffled groan. “Hey man, you ok? Where did it get you?”
“Imma kill ’is sonuva…”
Sam didn’t hear the end of Dean’s statement as he was once again thrown away. His wrist snapped with pain when he’d landed on it with his full weight. He didn’t have a chance to find his bearings as a steel rim tightened around his throat, lifted him up and smashed against the wall.
“Didn’t your momma tell you that it’s not nice to play with somebody else’s toys?” Right in front of himself, Sam saw an awfully deformed face he remembered from visiting the morgue. Dave. He tried to break the grip but it was deadly solid. “Oh yeah, right,” the thing’s features contorted in an abominable imitation of a smile, “I forgot she didn’t have a chance.”
“G’n!” Sam choked. He didn’t feel the touch of it in his palm anymore, he must have dropped it. The edges in his vision started to smooth ominously.
The shot reverberated in his ears leaving the ringing echo even when the grip loosened and Sam fell to his hands and knees spasmodically catching the breath. There was an animal-like howl followed by another shot, and another, and another, the sounds merging into cacophony that seemed to be piercing through Sam’s skull like a drill. Unable to stand up just yet, he forced his eyes open to take in the situation. Not far from him, lying on the floor was the vetala; Dave’s battered body twitching convulsively under the downpour of bullets in a terrifying travesty of a dance. Striking the rhythm of the discord. The image was sobering enough. On the other side of the room, awkwardly propped on the side of the couch with one arm, in a half-sitting position was Dean, the glock in his hands.
“Dean,” Sam tried to yell but the voice came strained and weak and croaky. “We got it.”
The volley didn’t stop.
“Dean!”
No reaction.
Then, just like that, the noise broke off. The clip was empty, the bullets gone. All seventeen of them. Jesus. In the silence that fell the clicking of the trigger felt much more misplaced and disquieting than the recent scream of discharge.
Sam pushed away the unidentified feelings threatening to transfix him. With some difficulty, he climbed to a wobbly stand and moved towards his brother who still seemed oblivious to anything apart from the inert body. The mark. Sam squatted down next to him and reached out for the gun.
“Hey, man,” he said placatingly, “It’s gone, it’s over.”
Dean’s hold on the gun was steady but the rest of his body was trembling - whether it was from the effort, the pain or something entirely different, Sam didn’t know. Dean lowered the glock to his knees but didn’t ease off the clutch around the grip. His frame slumped down slack against the side of the furniture.
“Dean, you alright?”
His brother’s lids fell closed, he didn’t react, didn’t give a sign he had heard anything.
“Dean!” In this fucking darkness Sam couldn’t even see the injuries his brother might have. “You with me, man? Look at me!”
“’M fine.” The words were spat out in a strained tone, all teeth.
“Ok, easy. It’s ok, it’s going to be ok.”
“Shan’n?”
Shit, Shannon. “I don’t know where she is. I can’t see her. Where does it hurt?”
“Ches’”
“Anything broken?”
“Dunno, maybe, yeah. Can’ breathe”
“Jesus. Ok, just don’t move. I’ll finish this.” Sam motioned to grab the barrel of the glock lying in Dean’s laps, “I got it, just stay still.”
Dean’s fingers were still tightly woven around the metal.
“It’s ok, man, I got it,” Sam repeated mildly.
“Fuck you.” The words were ripped out tensed and grainy, and consisted the sense of blank coercion that made Sam let go of the gun.
“Listen, I’ll go find Shannon and there’s a spell I gotta say. Just stay still, ok? I’ll be with you in a second and then we’re out of here.”
“Mhm”
***
Sam’s eyes were jumping from the people stomping nervously in a hospital hall to the ones sitting slumped on plastic chairs, and finally to nurses, seemingly rushing in all possible directions. The place struck him as too bright, too busy, the chair too small to accommodate his size. Sam was floundering in desperate attempts not to look suspicious and stop his nervous roving glances, but it seemed his reserves of stamina had been dried up for the night. They should be out of town by now but with Dean’s injuries Sam didn’t want to risk any complications. Damage to the internal organs was the last thing they needed right now. Even the potential arrest was coming second. So, Dean was having an X-ray and Shannon was being examined, which left Sam confined to this chair for the time being.
Back in that house, when he had finally found an opportunity to switch on the light, the sight had turned out more than he had been willing to handle. Dean’s white shirt hadn’t been white anymore but dirty and torn and bloody. His face pale and swollen, eyes shut tightly. One of their shotguns, salt round, that’s what had been missing from the Impala’s trunk. Fortunately, Shannon had been in a better condition; dilated pupils and a massive headache had seemed a simple diagnosis to Sam. She had been conscious and only slightly confused, hadn’t complained about anything else.
The drive to the hospital had been quiet for the most part, quiet being a relative term because his brother’s labored breathing had sounded like a fucking jackhammer in Sam’s head.
“Dave…?” Shannon’s uncertain voice had come from the backseat.
“It wasn’t Dave. It was a vetala, a demon,” Sam had offered. “It just looked like him. But it’s gone and it’s not coming back.”
He’d noticed her nod in the rearview mirror. It hadn’t been a gesture directed at him.
“Was that the same thing that had killed him?”
“Yes.”
“Was that because of what he’d done earlier?”
Sam had hesitated then. Rolling the answer in his head, knowing what he’d known, realizing the weight of it. Still, he’d rather know.
“The past caught up with him,” it had been Dean interrupting in a gritty voice. “Jus’ the way it always does.”
Surprised, Sam had opened his mouth to clarify but the look of Shannon had stopped him. It hadn’t been a relief, not even by a long shot, but in her face he’d seen a possibility that at some point she might be able to deal with it. What he had been about to say could shatter to pieces even that. Maybe, she hadn’t needed all the answers after all.
No, now he thought, she really didn’t.
“We got police on our trail,” he’d said instead forcing his voice to sound even. “We’ll be gone as soon as Dean’s seen a doctor.”
He had expected some battling about the doctor part but his brother hadn’t commented. The walkover had never been something Sam’d counted as a win.
He dragged a hand through his hair and winced involuntarily. His wrist, right. He’d forgotten about it, the adrenaline effectively deadening the pain. Standing in some distance was a teenager holding an arm close to his chest and staring at Sam with curiosity. He reverted his gaze the moment their eyes met. Sam forced his lips to quirk in a reassuring smile although the boy couldn’t possibly see it anymore.
It felt like he had spent days on this chair.
The images of yet another run-off-the-mill hospital day were parading in front of him. Patients, nurses, visitors; the meaningless snapshots of strangers he was never to meet again. He hid his head in his palms cutting himself from the cavalcade, realizing that there was no point, that it had been already done, quite a while ago.
After what he’d said to Shannon, the car once again had been filled with silence. The kind that had been heavy with fear, distress and rush.
“What you did when he was... When it was...” Dean had taken a breath but the pain stopped him. It’d been a while before he’d resumed. “Shooting the son of a bitch. Was brave, and, thanks.”
Sam had seen Shannon’s face in the rearview mirror, it was filled with horror. “There’s nothing I can..." She’d shaken her head, tears had streamed down her cheeks. “You... I should be the one thanking you.”
“It’s ok,” Sam had said absent-mindedly not losing the sight of the droplets of sweat covering his brother’s gaunt face. “It’s what we do.”
He lifted his head. The hospital was still there, not paying any attention.
***
One fractured rib, flesh wounds on the chest from the salt-shot, numerous bruises. Some anti-inflammatory drugs, tramadol, if the pain got bad. Rest.
Sam didn’t drive back to the motel. A few pieces of clothes, even his laptop, weren’t worth the risk. Nomadic lifestyle and a few valuable items left behind had taught them to keep what was important in the car, not that there were many things that could be counted as such. They still needed to go back to Shannon’s house, though. Burn the body. Erase all the evidence that they had ever been there.
Sam cursed himself the moment the Impala’s wheels left the asphalt and hit the bumpy dirt road. He should have seen the job through but had been too preoccupied with his brother’s condition to think about anything else apart from going straight to the hospital. But that was then and this was now. Dean didn’t say anything, just set his jaw and closed his eyes. Sam could see his knuckles go white on the door handle.
By the time they reached the house Dean was pale and panting. Shaky, shallow breaths. He didn’t even look at the wooden construction when the car halted to a stop and Sam left the vehicle promising his brother to be quick.
There was no funeral pier. No hunter’s last respect. Just some salt, kerosene and fire at the back of the house filling Sam’s nostrils with the characteristic sharp scent. He could still smell it when he got back to the car.
“He gone?” Dean asked quietly, lifting his head, eyes wandering dazedly. He must have dived into some of the good stash; his posture looked more relaxed, slumped against the Impala’s door didn’t give the usual bigger-than-life impression. Sam didn’t miss the choice of pronoun.
Seventeen bullets, he thought.
“Yeah, it’s over. Try to get some rest.”
Dean nodded, closed his eyes and soon caved in to a restless sleep.
***
“Hey man, let’s just get you to bed, ok?”
Dean shifted at the sound and immediately regretted the movement as it slashed his chest with hot white pain sucking all the air out of his lungs.
“Easy, just breathe through it.”
“Fuckin’ tryin’,” he gasped, surprised at the gravelly sound of his voice. He felt the cold sweat cover his forehead.
“Here, take this,” he felt something being pushed into his palm. Two round pills. Thank fucking Christ.
He dry-swallowed them.
“How far?” Dean croaked, opened his eyes but scrunched them up at the brightness of the day.
“Clayton. New Mexico.” Sam was outside the car, hovering on the passenger door side. “You ready?”
Dean peeked behind Sam at the red scraped door that hopefully led to their room. Still, it was a long fucking way and the meds hadn’t had nearly enough time to kick in. He was dizzy, the pain was pounding rhythmically in his chest and he felt that any movement might end up in puking, which was bad enough itself, and with a broken rib? Yep, he’d rather avoid that. Suddenly, the Impala’s seat felt like a freaking Ritz.
“I could dance fucking hula as long as there would be some strippers involved,” he breathed with effort and tried for the sly, “if you know what I mean.”
The corner of Sam’s lips quirked up in a small smile. “I think I do. Subtle as the image is.”
“I can’t see no strippers here, Sammy.”
“I bunched them up inside. Come on man, on three.”
On two, Dean was on his feet. A few steps later he was emptying his stomach on the ground feeling as if somebody cut through his interiors with hot iron. Sam was standing right there, holding him up and apparently making sure Dean wouldn’t dive nose first into his own puke, which wasn’t all that unlikely.
“Holy fuckin’,” he gasped when the heaves mercifully subsided.
“Ok. It’s just a few more steps, you think you can make it?”
Dean quashed the need to punch his brother in the face. Instead, he forced his trembling body to move in the direction Sam was pointing. “I swear, they’d better be damn hot.”
***
Waking up was a laborious process but, fortunately, nowhere near as painful as after ten hours in the car. He was sleeping in an almost half-sitting position so he could easily see the bedside table displaying his pills and a glass of water. Gratefully, Dean reached for them extolling his brother’s long-headedness. He slumped back against the pile of blankets and pillows propping him up, bent on giving the meds just as long as they needed to have a proper effect.
When he finally felt the edges of pain smooth away, Dean forced himself out of the bed he only remotely remembered reaching and headed straight for the shower. The water was tepid but he didn’t mind, the streams combined with the motel cheap shampoo making him feel more like his usual self.
Dean gave up the idea of a T-shirt, slowly put on his jeans and a bottom-up, and shuffled out of the room. He had no idea what time it was, it somehow didn’t occur to him to check and now, when he found a bench just outside the door, going back sounded like too much of an effort. It was early morning from the look of it, the sun hanging still relatively low in the bleached sky. He scanned the parking lot but the Impala was nowhere to be found. A woman trying to pack her two small kids into a pick-up was the only sign of life in his sight. The children, two girls, couldn’t be more than five, colorfully dressed and chasing each other around the car reminded him of those little birds he’d once seen on Discovery. Something with rainbow in the name; he remembered thinking that it was a damn good name for the tiny creatures. The warm sunlight grazed pleasantly against his face.
“Hey, Dean, what are you doing here?”
The voice was coming from behind a curtain of haze. He blinked experimentally and caught a glimpse of Sam heading towards him. He must have dozed off. Real smart.
“Waiting for your lazy ass to haul itself here and bring me some coffee,” he answered, cautiously straightening his position.
Sam indeed had a cup in one of his hands, in the other he was carrying a paper bag with some take-out. He regarded the lone Styrofoam container, looked as if he wanted to say something but instead, he just passed the cup to Dean without a word.
Perks of a broken rib, Dean smirked to himself and took a generous gulp of the hot beverage feeling the pleasant warmth fill his body.
“How are you doing?” Sam’s voice was quiet but expectant.
“Man, there’s a mystery of nirvana trapped in that cup,” Dean said lazily.
Sam turned his face to the sun, sighed, “Let’s get inside, you should eat something.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Dean drawled flippantly not moving an inch.
“Dean.”
“Sam.”
“You can’t live on drugs and coffee. And you’re shivering. You wanna catch pneumonia on top of it?”
It was true, his little nap left him all cold and shaky. Still, it wasn’t nearly enough to make him abandon this sun-flooded bench. He put the already empty container aside.
“Whatya got there?” He asked airily, though the very idea of eating caused his stomach to somersault in protest.
Sam looked hesitantly, as if weighing up the possibilities. Finally his resolve seemed to falter and he settled next to him, dived into the bag and fished out two sandwiches. He handed one to Dean. They sat like that for a while, holding the paper-wrapped food in their hands, looking at nothing in particular and warming up in the early sunshine.
“So seriously, man, how are you doing?”
Dean sighed shallowly, attentive to his sore chest. “Took me over ten minutes to dress myself.”
“I’d say that’s a progress.”
“Ain’t got the underwear.”
Sam snorted, “Well, there’s always room for improvement.”
Dean took a bite of the sandwich and chewed it painstakingly.
“So, Shannon’s son, huh?” He asked trying to force the food down.
“Yeah. Only scraps of information left, but from what I gather, the boy was quite a troubled individual. I didn’t even get his name. There was a series of deaths following him, all young girls, all mutilated before decease.”
“The ultimate recipe for a vetala.”
“I think the deaths might’ve been what caught Dave’s attention. He finds out that nothing supernatural stands behind the killings - “
“- he kills the serial killer. Yeah, I figured. But it comes back to bite him in the ass.”
“Designates Mandy Oak as its next target. The ritual must have been an attempt to stop the thing. It fits.”
Dean nodded, engrossed in his thoughts. Killing people to save people, he felt there was a hole in this logic but somehow couldn’t quite pinpoint it. He wondered what he would do, but it seemed there was only one answer for that. Even back at fourteen, feeling the cold of the trigger under his finger, despite everything in him screaming against, it hadn’t been a question of choice. Little ever was. That hunter had crossed the line, playing with darkness that no human should ever have anything to do with. Dean knew that, even back then. Dave and he, maybe they weren’t all that different after all.
“You were right, though. About Dave.”
Sam’s admission caught him off-guard. “I was right about what exactly?”
His brother exhaled the air with a barely audible wheeze, shifted on the bench before answering. “I guess I wanted to believe that there’s a way out, you know. One day. That maybe it’s not all that there’s to life.”
Dean looked at the parking lot, squinting slightly at the sun. “Well, I don’t know much about that. The way I knew Dave? He was the type of a guy you didn’t want to spend with a minute more than absolutely necessary. Still, Shannon must’ve seen more than that. It should count for something.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Sam said in a low voice, no real conviction detectable behind the words.
He was quiet after that, not more interested in his sandwich than Dean was in his. A few cars drove hastily down the street.
“You have a beer in that thing, by any chance?” Dean asked indicating the take-out bag still sitting in his brother’s laps.
Sam looked up, the smart-ass-little-brother expression dancing coyly in his face, “What do you think?”
“Generally? That you’re a hell of a boring bitch.”
Sam smiled, looking more relaxed, but after a while he took a more serious expression. “Listen, about what happened in that house.”
“What about it?” Dean asked too quickly, feeling suddenly tensed.
Sam took a breath and turned slightly so that he was facing Dean. “Whatever it was that you saw back there, it wasn’t there, not really. It was the vetala and it’s gone now.”
“Yeah, I know that,” Dean said with emphasis.
“I’m not sure you do, Dean. The thing is,” Sam paused, shook his head almost unnoticeably. “You’re here, we’re here, and there’s too much crap to fit it all into the Impala’s trunk and drag it around.”
It was a while before Dean answered. “You do realize that you sound like a poor-ass imitation of Yoda, right?”
At that, a small mocking smile loomed in Sam’s features. “And you do realize that you’ve just compared me to Yoda, right?”
“A poor-ass imitation,” Dean corrected pointing his index finger in the air. “Besides, I don’t know what you’re so bouncy about. The guy was little, green and annoying, at least one point where I see the resemblance.”
“Yoda, dude. In your screwed up world it’s like the last word in the theory of existence. You should be grateful for all the wisdom I graciously share with you.”
“Screw you, bitch,” Dean retorted weakly but couldn’t anymore conceal a smile of his own.
The sun was up, the road awaiting; it wasn’t all that bad a manner to get the hold of a new day.
The End
A/N 3: As you've probably noticed the vetala that appears in this story has nothing to do with the one from the Show. The plot for the fic came to me quite a while ago and when the epi aired the story was already half-written. It just took an awful long to finish it. I panicked and wanted to change the monster of the week at first but then decided against it. *shrugs* It just wouldn't have been the same story. Hope it's nothing particularly bothersome.
Also, if you happened to get this far, I'd LOVE to know what you think.