Crescendo of the Moon: (1/?)
Title: Crescendo of the Moon
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence, and disturbing images
Pairing: None.
Characters: Dean and Sam
Category: Multi-chapter story falling in the action, drama, and angst categories.
Spoilers: “Pilot” and slight “Home”
Word Count: 1774 (this chapter)
Summary: After a past hunt leaves both Sam and Dean wounded, a new threat emerges that preys upon their pains and weaknesses. Brother is pitted against brother, and the hunters themselves soon become the hunted.
Disclaimer: The following characters and situations are used without permission of the creators, owners, and further affiliates of the Warner Bros television show, Supernatural, to whom they rightly belong. I claim only what is mine, and I make no money off what is theirs.
“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby becomes a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” -Friedrich Nietzsche
“Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength.” -August Wilson
One
From the discarded cigarette a thin wisp of smoke rose high into the air, curling around the shadows of the solitary, paint-peeling building and caressing the curves of the bloated, low-hanging moon. The cigarette, still glowing vibrantly with seductive oranges, was quickly extinguished by the sharp grinding of a black boot against the cracking asphalt spotted with patches of gravel. As Dean uncapped the fuel tank on the Impala and inserted the gasoline nozzle, he gave one extra twist of his leather heel to reassure that the cigarette, carelessly left from another passerby near the working set of gasoline pumps, was ash. He then leaned back against the trunk of his car, hooking one ankle over the other and shoving a blood smeared hand into his pocket as he watched the numbers rise under the smudged screen with every gallon filling his car’s belly. Fatigued and worn, he chewed on the edge of a callused finger, ignoring the dirt crusted over the edges of his skin and the dust dotting the light hairs on the back of his hands and arms.
There was a sharp click that seemed abnormally loud in the silent environment when the tank capped off, and Dean removed the still dribbling nozzle and placed it back on its holder at the gasoline pump with only a glance at the total he owed. Walking in long, tired strides to the entrance of the convenience store, he produced a credit card from his back pocket and ran the other hand through his hair, greasy from perspiration and lack of showering.
At the register in the starkly lit store the bleary-eyed clerk squinted in confusion at the disheveled man in the navy t-shirt, who wore bloody scratches and purple bruises, coming through his doors at two in the morning. Instinctively the clerk’s hand moved below the counter where he kept a loaded pistol for moments where the skin around the back of his neck prickled cautiously. Dean gave a forced smile, sensing the man’s discomfort, and after a moment of debating, he decided to pick up some food along with the outrageous gasoline total. As he tried not to limp from the wound on his leg down the aisles, too brightly lit with their artificial lights, he could feel the clerk’s eyes, squeezed into his thick face, watching his every movement.
For himself, Dean poured an extra large paper cup full of hot black coffee from the steaming pots, and he discovered a frothy vanilla drink that would seem to fit Sam’s tastes. After the drinks came the difficult task of deciding which artificially sweetened, plastic wrapped product would serve best as an after midnight snack. Dean sighed under his breath and decided to forego Sam’s blatant wishes for them to eat healthily.
The clerk rang up Dean’s total with a pudgy, nail-bitten finger hovering over each key in slow contemplation, and he packed the assortment of donuts and potato chips, chocolate bars and onion rings into a flimsy plastic bag. The two men didn’t exchange words as Dean slid the credit card across the counter top at the clerk who gave it a dubious glance before scanning it. Finally the card was handed back to Dean, who was already gulping the scalding, bitter coffee with caffeine deprived gusto.
Dean unlocked the doors to the car, even though the windows had been left cracked to allow fresh air to roll through the vehicle in the desert heat. Although the temperature was considerably cooler at night than it had been during their day traveling, it was still warmer than what the brothers were readily accustomed to. In the Impala’s passenger seat, Sam was sleeping, long tanned limbs twisted into a crude fetal position that didn’t appear to be comfortable enough to allow him to sleep as peacefully as he had been for the last two hours. His face, dotted with traces of dark stubble, was pressed against the window, as his mouth hung open and his hands supported his drooped head. Expect for waking once or twice to glance over at Dean with pinched, watery eyes and ask how much longer until their next stop, Sam had been sleeping since they left the last city.
Still balancing the two drinks in his hands and the bag looped across his left wrist, Dean settled into the driver’s seat and gave Sam a gentle nudge in the side with his elbow. Sam sprang awake, arms popping as if the tightened rubber bands on them had been cut, and he nearly hit the cups right out of Dean’s hands. Dean yelled a curse when Sam came to realize where he was, peering at Dean through bloodshot eyes rimmed in crusted sleep and black circles.
“Dean?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat twice, while Dean closed the creaking driver’s side door behind him.
“Geesh, what was that all about?” Dean replied with a bite that resulted from too many hours spent driving instead of quietly sleeping like his younger brother.
“I…I just didn’t expect to be woken up, that’s all. You…surprised me.”
Dean snorted under his breath and mumbled words Sam didn’t hear before he passed Sam the sweet-smelling beverage. “I got you something. Figured you were hungry.”
“What is it?” Sam asked, shifting himself to a more upright position in the seat while accepting the paper cup from Dean.
“Don’t know. Vanilla something. Looked like it was something weird you’d drink.”
“So I’m not a coffee person, don’t hold it against me.” When Dean didn’t respond, Sam pointed to the bag Dean had set between the two of them. “What else you get?”
“Name it. I don’t know when we’re getting to the next motel in this freakin’ desert, so I picked up what I could.”
Like a kid at Christmas, Sam dug his mud crusted fingers into the bag, rummaging through the various plastic items until he realized that the closest snack to healthy he was getting was the bag of beef jerky Dean had bought. Still grateful for the food with their last meal over twelve hours behind them, Sam sliced the plastic bag open with one of the more easily accessed knives and tore the thick chunks of meat ravenously with his teeth. Suddenly awake and starving, he alternated between gulping down the sweet drink and chewing the spicy meat. It was not normally a combination he would have enjoyed, but given the circumstances, it was the best thing he had tasted in a long time.
Seeing that Dean still had not started the car and was merely rubbing the side of his head with a grimace, Sam stopped eating long enough to ask if Dean was all right.
Dean shot a sideline glance back at Sam before responding, “Yeah, I-”
“You want me to drive?” Sam offered, still chewing on the other side of his mouth. A small voice reminded him not to talk with his mouth full, but as his time with Dean progressed, he found such trifle manners depleting in their constant company together and opening up into a closer bond of their private moments.
“No, I just-I think I hit my head funny or something. I’ve got a bitch of a headache.”
“Did you have a concussion? You lost consciousness when you fell. It’s a good possibility.” Sam paused to swallow the mashed lump of jerky pressed against the side of his cheek. “I think you need to see a doctor. It could be more severe than we think-”
“Sam, stop. I’m fine…I just got a headache, that’s all,” Dean replied, although his voice sounded unsure with his statement.
Sam rolled his eyes dismissively, before sarcastically replying, “Sure, you say headache. I say concussion.” He looked over at Dean, who was gazing out the window at the desert, one knuckle brought up to his mouth and the other hand resting on the steering wheel. “I can drive and let you sleep, y’know. It might do you some good.”
“I know. I need to drive right now. Get my mind off this thing.”
“The headache?” Sam asked, slightly confused as Dean normally was not the type of person to complain over a headache.
“No. Just…I’ll catch some sleep later. There’s nobody else out here anyway. The roads are empty, so I’ll be fine. No risk of accidents.” As if to officially end the conversation, Dean twisted the keys in the ignition with a harsh twist of his wrist, and the car growled to life. He pressed his foot a little harder than necessary against the accelerator, and the Impala lurched forward out of crumbling parking lot where it squealed when Dean turned out of the gas station onto the empty road.
Sam remained quiet until he finished his food, shoving the plastic wrappers into his empty cup, and then he dozed off some time later, leaving the interior of the car with a faint vanilla and chocolate scent that could not be wiped away by the wind. With the window rolled down, Dean drummed his fingertips against the outside of the car’s metallic body, catching the warm breeze between the spaces of his worn fingers. Although the radio was turned down far enough to transform the guitar anthems into lullabies so that Sam could sleep, Dean could still hear the familiar melodies in his mind and hummed along quietly.
Dean drove the Impala down the barren roads with only one hand on the steering wheel and eyes scanning the wide field in front of him that the headlights illuminated. Crawling across the road, a black lizard flecked with orange and yellow emerged into the Impala’s path. Not wanting to hit the reptile and dirty his car, Dean slowed the vehicle down long enough to allow the creature to scuttle across the road into the dark and rolling sand. As soon as the lizard disappeared and Dean resumed his speed, he had forgotten about the incident all together. However, the creature’s small yellow eyes watched the red taillights fade into the infinite night, and the lizard gave a flick of its long purple tongue. Against scaled black lips, a smile formed on its face.
Chapter Two