jai guru deva om: pools of sorrow (chapter 1)

[sharlot1926]

Dean took another generous pull from the bottle and looked around the dark room.



A/N:  Thank you from the bottom of my heart for choosing to read my story!  This extremely Dean-centric, Stanford-years fanfic is set during the summer between Sam’s freshman and sophomore year at Stanford.  I will post new chapters on Mondays and Thursdays until all 14 chapters have been posted.
A/N: My heartfelt gratitude goes out to Tifaching, NongPradu, and Emmessann for their AMAZING beta work.  I also want to thank my small army of volunteer test-readers-wonderful friends like JPGR who offered to or were tapped to sample portions (or all) of the manuscript prior to posting.   As ever, my deepest thanks go out to my husband, Brian, who made my poster art and who also makes it possible for me to post here, since I am technologically challenged when it comes to LiveJournal.
A/N: “Jai Guru Deva Om” is a line from The Beatles’ tune, “Across the Universe” by John Lennon.  It means roughly, “Praise our divine teacher!”
Jai Guru Deva Om

Chapter One
Pools of Sorrow

**ॐ**

Dean took another generous pull from the bottle and looked around the dark room. It was no more than a vague mumble of brick and mortar, beam and shadow. An all too familiar sense of isolation struck hard, and the ache of it echoed and radiated. He rummaged through his pockets for his cell phone, digging it out with effort and triumphantly dropping it in his lap. He celebrated by taking another drink, hissing and straining from the burn as it traveled all the way down. That didn't stop him from tossing his head back and following up with another quick, stinging chaser. He bumbled with the phone, puzzling out how to flip it open. The bright digital display shocked his sensitive retinas, and he flinched and squinted, waiting for the little black globs to organize into words and numbers. Once his vision steadied, he scrolled through his contact-list while taking another greedy drink. He wobbled, almost teapotting over as he set the bottle down with a begrudging moan and a solemn promise, choosing to concentrate solely on the phone.

"Fffucckin'…fffuckin' thing," he fussed, his thick, clumsy thumb taking three tries to press the awkward buttons. Once accomplished, he swung the bottle back up to help pass the time while he waited for an answer. After the fifth ring, the call switched to voicemail. The upbeat recording brought a lump to Dean's throat, and he hugged his bottle close, squeezing his watering eyes shut. After a stuttered moment, he realized that the prompting beep had passed him by.

"Oh hey…hey, mmm'I on? Heyyyyyyyyyyy li'l brother…s'me. Dean. Callin' to see how you're doin', y'know? Ev'rythin'…ev'rythin' is grrreat, here, S'mmy. Sss'awwwsome. Yeahhh, workin' a case. Nodda big s'prise there, huh? S'great. Yeah, sss'jus'…jus' great…workin', workin'. Y'know the drill. But s'awwsome. M'som'-somewhere up in, ummm, Washninton State. Fuckin' rains all the fuck time. M'in, uhhhh, Bellinndale? Ferminnham? What the hhhhell is this town called? Hippies everywhere, I swear, man-stann'in' on street corners an' hann'in' out flyers for fuck's sake." He cleared his throat and sighed. "Yeah…s'great…lots'a mountains. Tons'a rain. All th'damn time. D'I say that already? I think I did, huh? Good bars, though. Hustlin's easy here, man. Locals can't shoot f'shit." He stopped and tongued the edge of the bottle, opening wide and taking a loud, conspicuous swallow. He growled as it blazed a trail toward his stomach, and he waited a couple of ticks to make sure it was going to stay put before venturing on. "Town's still got plenny of vengefuls, I'll tell you what. Vera Hovander wasn't so bad. Sad eyes. Died young. Nuttin' that a li'l salt n' burn couldn't cure if y'know what m'sayin'." He snorted and then paused as though waiting for a reply.

"So, how-" A beep told him that the message had stopped recording. "Sonnabish," he groused, studying the screen and concentrating on redialing. He put the phone back to his ear and waited for the voicemail.

As soon as the beep gave the all-clear, he went on as if nothing had happened. "So how you doin', man? Huh? Li'l brother? Haven't heard from you since…" He hesitated. "Since…umm…y'know. Anyway, not sure ‘f my messages got through. Lef' one f'ya a few weeks back on y'birthday. Did'cha get it? Freakin' cell phones, righ'? Don' work half the time..." he said into the lip of the hollowed out bottle as he tipped it up to his mouth. He listened to the silence coming from the line and twice tried to say something, faltering each time before the words spilled past the fake smile splayed out on his face. "S'almost summer, dude. S'been nearly a year. Wanna get t'gether, maybe? Jus' you ‘n me? No strings, man." He paused and took another quick pull. "N'tryin' t'push y'or nothin', y'know? Jus' tryin' to catch up with m'brother. Whaddaya say, hey?" The smile evaporated, and he went to take another drink, stopping the bottle mid-way to his lips. It swayed and tottered in his slack grip as he made a wide gesture. "S'been…s'been a long year." The young hunter searched the dirty brick walls and closed his eyes, his breathing becoming erratic. He lifted the bottle the rest of the way and took a decisive pull to cover it up. Grimacing, he held the cool bottle to his forehead before loosing a dismissive laugh just as the voicemail cut him off again. He put his thumb back on the button and reconnected. The call cycled through five rings again before voicemail came on for the third time. Dean didn't miss a beat.

"Riiigh', yeah, I guess s'bad idea, huh? Yeah, no…you're righ'…you're busy, an' I'm real fuckin' busy. Busy-busy-busy," he said, addressing the bottle. He took a mouthful and cleared his throat. "Dunno what I was thinkin', man. S'all good. No, see…m'just callin' ‘cause I was hopin' you could come gemme t'nigh'. S'late an' I can't…I can't. I'm fucked up, man. Sammy? I ffffucked up." His breathing hitched and he took another conciliatory belt, shaking his head to clear it. It only throbbed all the more for the movement, and black spots winked and spun rapidly before his eyes. "Nah…nahhhh," he laughed, trying to ignore the silence coming from the other end of the line. "Ffffforget that las' part. M'good. Sss'all good, Sammy. Y'stay put an' I'll be in touch. Don'…don' study too hard this summer, man. Tha's jus' weird. Fuckin' geek. Okay, man…Okay, Sammy. Sammy. Sam. I'll talk to y'later. ‘K…bye." He started to hang up but then stopped. "This is Dean. If y'get this message, gimme a call back, wouldja? I jus' wanna hear from ya. No hurry. S'all good. Everything's awesome. S'great. ‘K…bye now."

Dean's breath caught in a slight hiccup as he ended the call. Laying his head back against the cold brick behind him, he took another languid mouthful before straightening back up sluggishly. He lifted the phone to his face again and played with the display until he found another number. Pressing a shaky thumb to the phone, he dialed. It was picked up on the third ring.

"Dean?"

"Bobbbbby, heyyyyy. Yeah, sss'me. S'damn good t'hear your voice," Dean garbled loudly into the phone.

"Move the phone back a little, boy. I can smell the whiskey from here," the old man quipped.

Dean adjusted the phone, aiming it away from his mouth. "S'rry Bobby, man…hey, m'sorry, okay? N'whiskey t'night, dude." He turned his head and took a sip from the bottle, an unsteady hand forcing him to chase the stream with his tongue.

"Right." Bobby scoffed. "So, how much have you not had to drink tonight?"

Dean swallowed and squinted at the bottle in his hand, measuring. "More'n hhalf a bottle. M'thirssy," he slurred as he took another glug. "Can' get enough."

"Oh, I think you've had plenty."

"I think m'still thirssy," Dean mumbled, clutching the bottle as if it was in danger of being snatched away.

"And I'm thinkin' cirrhosis of the liver sure ain't gonna look cute on a twenty-three year old. What are you trying to drown away tonight, anyway?"

"Not tryin' to drown," he huffed out, indignant, a little hurt by the accusation. "Tryin'a get out," Dean schooled the man. "Hey Bobby…Bobby? Bobby, hey, can…can y'come gemme? Huh? Don' think I can drive."

"Y'don't say," Bobby snarked. "Least you have some sense left. Where are you, Dean?"

"M'in…uh…some hippy town," Dean said as his teeth started to chatter. He gripped his flannel shirt and pulled it closer while keeping a firm grip on his bottle. "Fffffernpatch or somethin'…'bout five miles north of Bellinnton. Bellinnburg? Bellinnham?"

"Uh huh…how's about we start with the state and work our way inward from there," Bobby offered.

"Washninton," Dean said confidently. "Rainy-Washninton, not Pennagon-Washninton. Buncha kayak paddlin' nutjobs if y'ask me," he disparaged. "An' wha's with all the ‘spresso? Ev'ry damn corner, man. M'serious."

"Well shit, boy, I'm in Florida at the moment."

"Aww, I ffuckin' hate that place even more. So y'comin'?" Dean asked as he shivered.

"Have y'heard a word, drunkard? I'm in Florida. North to South, East to West-take your pick. We're at opposite ends of the country, anyway you slice it."

"Ohhhh…okay, Bobby. ‘K. How're you?"

"Stone-cold sober, more's the pity," Bobby huffed out. "Actually, I'm stuck at the hospital."

"Hhhhhhospital? Shit, Bobby…you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said wearily. "It's not me. I'm here with Richie. We were hunting a-"

"Richie?" Dean cut in. "Sussccubus-humpin' Richie?"

"That's the one."

"Tol' ‘im hunnin' was no good f'him. Tha' tasty poptart had his head spun roun'-n-roun'. Heh…heh. Li'l bastard never listens. Think he enjoyed it, ‘cept the almos' dyin' part-he alrigh'?"

"Twenty-seven stitches, a bruised kidney and a mysterious rash. Witches," Bobby offered as the logical explanation.

"Goddamn witches," Dean agreed with loud, sloppy disdain. "I hhhhate them things, too. Hate ‘em more'n Rainy-Washninnon and Fffuckin'-Flor'da combined."

"These are particularly nasty, too. They've set up shop in a retirement community. Handing out youth like it's springing from a fountain. Costs a life for every old-timer they turn around, though."

"Tha' sucks, dude," Dean nodded sagely.

"And the job ain't even done. Need to get Richie patched up and back to it. People are dyin' here. So, you okay to get back to the motel on your own, kid?"

Dean looked around and took another liberal swig from the bottle. "Dunno. Could use a han', Bobby. Wouldn't call but I…I jus'..." He winced and cupped his throbbing head, balancing the bottle at the same time and huffing out an anxious breath. "Nothin's makin' any sense, Bobby. Wha's wrong w'me? I tried t'call Sam, but I guess he's busy. Always too busy to answer. I wanna see ‘im, Bobby. Miss ‘im. Wannim t'come gemme. Bobby. Bobby?"

The old hunter sighed. "I know, kid. I know."

"It hurr's," Dean admitted, rubbing the back of his head gingerly.

"Damn Dean…It's not like you to get this drunk-or this maudlin." Another sigh. "You listen to me, kid. Sam just needs time. It's a phase. Be patient with him."

"Yeah," Dean said, defeated. He let out another long breath. "Yeah. Y'righ'. K Bobby." He said, his eyes slipping shut, his voice slurred with sleep. He struggled to open his eyes halfway. "Y'comin' t'gemme?"

"Christ, you're more pickled than I thought you were," Bobby chided. "Get the bartender to call a cab, boy. Even hippy-towns have those."

"Bartenner?"

"And drink lots of water."

"I am!" Dean said with a grumpy, sawdust growl, his voice cracking and turning into a small whimper at the end as he took another conspicuous shot from the bottle.

"Get some rest, Dean. We'll talk once your hangover's gone and you can remember your own name."

"Oh," he said lamely. "Oh…okay, Bobby." He rubbed his aching head with shaky fingers. "Yeah, suurre, we'll talk later. Sorry f'botherin' ya."

"You ain't a bother, kid, but I got to go. The doctor's heading this way. I'll call you tomorrow. Quit drinkin' so much, will ya?"

"M'thirssy," Dean reiterated, but Bobby had already hung up.

Dean snapped the phone shut and tapped it with his thumb as he held it to his chest. He began shivering a little more and took another drink. His eyes closed and he almost nodded off. Catching himself, he shook his head and downed another gulp, opening his eyes wide and then a little wider. He looked around bewildered and then glanced at the phone in his hand. He flipped it open, struggling to focus. He pressed a number and waited.

This time the phone didn't ring at all. It went right to voicemail as if the phone had been deliberately turned off since he left his last message. Dean's eyes squeezed shut against the devastating rejection. When he opened them again, he was all twisted smiles and denial. "Hhhey Sammy…Sammy boy. S'me again. Din' know if y'tried to call while I was on th'phone. Bobby's in ffffuckin' Flor'da. Didja know that? Crazy shit. Godda rash. Hey? You there, Sammy?" He waited an empty beat. "Guess your phone los' its charge, huh? Wen' right to voicemail. Okay, well, I guess you'll call when y'get this." He paused again and peered at the phone, trying to figure out how to disconnect the call. He changed his mind and put it back to his ear. "M'not mad, Sammy. Jus' wan' you to know that. ‘K? S'okay if you turned it off. We're good. ‘Memm'r that, okay? We're good. S'all right. I get it." He hung up and pressed another number. His breathing came in rapid bursts now, raw emotion penetrating his numb disconnect. He tried to steady himself while the phone rang. Another voicemail. He thumped his head against the brick wall behind him in frustration but regretted it as stars burst before his eyes. He downed a quick sip to help dilute the pain and panic.

"Dad? Dad, s'me. Jus' lettin' you know that I got the coorn…coorninnates y'sent. Checked it out. Pretty easy job. Too easy, but I guess y'knew that already, huh? S'all good. Vera wasn't really even all that fenge…fengevul. She was jus'-" He lifted the bottle toward his mouth but didn't make it this time. His arm fell limp at his side, the bottle nearly tipping over before Dean could right it. "She was jus' lonely." He paused, breathing hard. "I…I think she was jus' lonely, Dad. Y'know? She dinin't like the renovation they're doin'. Think she liked things better the way they used t'be." A longer pause. "Hey Dad…? Y'think you could come gemme? Don' think I can-" He stopped, interrupted by the sudden vibrating buzz of an incoming call. "Hhhey Dad? Dad…godda go. Mus' be Sammy callin' m'back, Dad…I'll talk to y'later. Dad? Call me when you get his, K? Please? Jus' wanna know you're okay, tha's all." He pressed the button to bring in the other call.

"Sammy? Sam?" He corrected himself.

"Dean? It's me again, Bobby." Dean slumped against the wall, losing the grip on his bottle. He sluggishly picked it up before too much could spill.

"Oh, hey Bobby," he said, unable to hide his disappointment.

"I love you, too kid," Bobby said wryly. Dean snorted a little but didn't answer. His lids drooped, and his teeth chattered as he drew breath. "Listen, I got to thinkin' and…Dean, where are you right now?"

"Dunno," he said. "Wuhh…Washninton, I think."

"No, dumbass…your exact location. Are you in a bar?" Bobby asked. The younger hunter blew out an indignant breath.

"Don' drink on th' job, Bobby. C'mon, m'not tha' sssstupid. M'thirssy, though," he admitted and worked to bring the near empty bottle up to his lips. He missed, and the liquid sloshed down his chin and neck as he greedily swallowed what he could get.

"Then what are you drinking?"

Dean eyed the clear bottle in his hand, giving the yielding plastic a quick, crunching squeeze to demonstrate. "Water. Nee' more, though."

"Son of a bitch," Bobby muttered. "Dean, listen to me. I need to know what happened tonight. Describe where you are. You said you were trying to get out. Where are you now?"

Dean looked around. "M'in th'basemen', I think," he said.

"Why can't you get out?"

"I dunno, Bobby." Dean closed his eyes and they listlessly roved beneath his lids. It took a moment before he realized that Bobby was shouting at him.

"Dammit Dean, answer!"

"Bobby? Hhhhey…where you at?"

"Stop stealing my lines," the old man grunted. "I'm askin' the questions. What happened to you, boy?"

Dean thought long and hard about it for a moment. He looked up through the hole in the basement's ceiling, watching the outside lights hit the wall in the parlor above. "Ssalsted an' burned Vera. Was rainin' cats n' frogs. Bu' she wen' down nice an' easy, man. ‘Cept f'her eyes." The boy faltered and swallowed. "They were sad." He cleared his throat. "Got done, an' was all wet ‘n muddy. Rains all the time here, y'know that? Never fffuckin' stops, man. Wen' back to the house-wanted to wash up in th'bathroom. Didn't wanna get baby all filthy. Fell," he said. "Ffff'ckin' nenorvation. ‘Struction work all over the damn place." He blew out a disgusted breath. "Made a wrong turn inna dark. Misstepped. Let my guard down…wasn't payin' attention. Was thinkin' of Vera an' her bein' all alone. Lost m'way an' I fucked up, Bobby. I fucked up an' the floor wen' out from unner me."

"Okay, so you are in a house, and you fell through a floor?"

"Mmmm," Dean said dreamily.

"Dean?"

"Mmmmm." His brain was wandering again.

"Open your eyes for me, kid," Bobby said.

"They're op'n."

"Like hell they are, boy. Open up."

Dean smirked and struggled to open his eyes. "Asshole." His teeth rattled as he tried to shift and sit up a little more, but he wound up slumped even further against the wall, his neck and head tilted in an uncomfortable angle.

"How long ago did you fall?"

"Can' ‘memm'r…"

"Think Dean. When did you finish the salt and burn?"

Dean glanced at his watch, but either his eyesight was going or the watch-face had broken in the fall. He stared at it from different angles until he could get an approximate time. "Umm…few hours. Four hours an' some change. Think I must'a been out for a while."

"Y'think, Van Winkle? All right, now do you know the address where you are?" Bobby prompted.

"Uhhhhh, Som'thin'…som'thin' Fernberg," Dean responded.

"Dammit, kid. I need a little more. Fernberg?"

"Fern…" Dean thought hard. "Fern-somethin'," he said a little stronger. "Historic home. Lan'mark. It's a public park an' museum now. Th-they even got peacocks ou'side, dude. Big-ass peacocks. Hippy-ville. Never seen s'many damn hippies, Bobby. They're fffriggin' e'rywhere. Always smilin' an' smilin'. Seen a bunch of ‘em wearin' freaky Jedi robes an' shit chanting on the street corner. Pod people. Maybe wanna make me one of ‘em. Y'think?"

"Focus, Dean. It's the Pacific Northwest not Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Focus on the town's name."

"K, Bobby," Dean said dutifully. "Fern…dale." He remembered. "Th'town s'called Ferndale. M'in th'Hovander Homestead. Family s'buried on th'grounds. One-stop shoppin'. Graveyard and haun'ned house righ' next to each other. Couldn' be easier. Dunno how I could screw it up so bad."

"Okay, so you're in the basement of the Hovander Homestead in Ferndale, Washington?"

"Yah'zee," Dean said and then groaned. He placed his hand on the upper left-hand side of his abdomen, feeling the ridged knot that was growing there. "Hurr's," he said.

"What hurts, Dean?"

"Dunno," Dean said with another moan and a hiss.

"Don't give me that, boy. Think," Bobby coached. The old hunter waited for a response. "Dean!" he called. "What hurts?" Finally, he got a weak response.

"Hit my head goin' down," Dean said. "Then lan'ned on a…on a ffriggin' sssawhorse or somethin'. Damn thing near hhalved me. Stomach hurr's a lot. Pain's goin' all a'way inna m'shoul'er."

"Are you bleeding?"

Dean looked down and pressed his fingers on the stiff, rapidly growing mass just above his stomach. He cried out and his lashes fluttered.

"Dean? You with me?"

"Nnng…"

"I need you to answer me, son."

The young hunter blinked until he could see again. His breath came in ragged huffs. "Yeahh, hurr's like a mother," Dean rasped.

"Are you bleeding?"

"Nuh. Thirssy," Dean responded. "Col'. Tired," he admitted. "C'n you come gemme?"

"I'm going to call someone for you. I just needed to know what we're dealing with. Listen kid, I'm gonna hang up now and call for help, and I want you to keep the phone in your hand. Can you do that for me?"

"You comin'?" Dean asked. His eyes closed again. "Don' wanna be alone."

"Help's comin', Dean. I'm going to call them now. Hang up but don't drop the phone. I'm going to call you right back, you hear me?" There was no immediate answer. "Do you hear me, Dean?"

"Yyy-yeah. ‘K, Bobby. Hhhey, lissin' Bobby…? C'n you call Sam an' have him come pick m'up? He migh' answer f'you. I wanna get outa here. Too tired t'drive." Bobby didn't answer for a few seconds.

"Christ kid, just…just stay awake, please. I'll call you right back. I'm hanging up now."

"Hhh'okay, Bobby," Dean slurred. The young man's body slid the rest of the way down the wall, and he tipped over onto his side. He wheezed out in pain, trying to brace his midsection with his elbow. The water-bottle had rolled away, and he whimpered as his hand flailed out for it, not even coming within two feet. His body contracted and lurched as a wave of nausea and pain hit him hard. Turning his head, he projectile-vomited water and blood onto the concrete floor next to him. As his body quaked and trembled with pain and shock, he lifted the phone up and incoherently pressed random buttons. In his muddled brain he was certain he had dialed Sam.

"Sssammy, s'me. Not gonna call again. I'll leave y'lone. I promise. Jus' wan'ned to…jus' wan'ned to…" He heaved again; this time only a little blood dripped down his chin. His eyes watered, but it wasn't from vomiting. "Can' do this Sam. Sss'all wrong. S'all fucked up an' m'tired. You left an' Dad left. An' I can'…" His chin quivered and he bit his lip. "Can' do this on m'own. I tried. Don' know why you won' pick up. Can' fix it if y'won' pick up. You know what that feels like? Huh? Fuckin' voice mail always, always. Watched m'brother walk off in the rain. It's been a year, man-a whole damngod, fuckin' year. Dad wen' off on some fuckin' hun' alone. Godda call one nigh' and was gone th'next mornin'. Jus' sends coornates, that's it, you know? Nothin' else. Dumped my ass, neat as an arrow. Can y'please call me? I need you. Need m'family. Jus' this once? Jus' this once f'me?" Dean's eyes fell shut, and it took all of his effort to reopen them. He concentrated on the water-bottle lying several feet away to try and keep awake. "Jus' wan'…" He coughed, speckling his hand and the phone with a red mist, but he didn't notice. His vision was browning out, fast. "Jus' wan' my family. Tha's all. I dunno, Sssammy…I feel like m'dyin' here or sssomethin'. Juss' call me. Don' wanna die ‘lone. M'beggin'…"

His body shivered uncontrollably. With his teeth clacking together, the phone wouldn't stay put against his jaw. His thoughts unspooled, and he forgot what he'd been doing. The phone tumbled out of his clammy fingers, falling open onto the concrete. Cold LED light spilled across his face, making it appear grayer than it was as shadows from his long lashes skirted across his cheeks. His eyes closed again. This time, however, there was no attempt to reopen them. The phone began to vibrate with an incoming call, but Dean never reached for it. The buzzing stopped and then restarted a few seconds later. The call went unheard and unanswered, eliciting nothing more than a spent gurgle as the unconscious hunter fought for each wet breath, alone in the dark.

Continue to Chapter 2