Watershed for astarloa (Part 1 of 2)
Title: Watershed
Recipient: Astarloa
Rating: teen and up
Word count: 14,885
Warnings: a little Winchester language, peril, and our boys being boys
Summary: Dean has a concussion. Sam to the rescue. Mayhem, water, and worry, all around. Set in season one.
Author's Note: Dear Astarloa, I very likely went in a direction different than you intended. I hope this makes you happy,none the less. I wish I'd had more time to work with your prompts, they were very intriguing. I combined a few. Enjoy! “whispers” Someone with more talent than me should definitely create a Dean!pot-plant,Caring!Sam,Brown-thumb!Sam piece for you and if they do, I'll be in the front of the line to congratulate you both!
---------Part 1----------
He is in pain. His head aches-badly. He's been in pain since he came to. He's laying on something hard and uneven, probably asphalt, the smell of warm tar is deep in his nose. He can feel something gritty and abrasive against his right cheek and beneath his hands. His vision is blurry. Blinking doesn't help. He pushes up, but the view doesn't get much better. Every time he moves his head the faint amount of light around him smears and twists, forming spiking halos that surround everything. That's bad enough, but factor in the rolling nausea,the galloping echoes pressing against his eardrums, and he feels like he is almost certainly going to hurl.
He'd been alone when he regained consciousness,swallowing down bile and grit, pushing himself to his knees because apparently he'd been lying spread eagle in an alley. The odors of tar, gasoline, days-old rotting garbage, and decaying fish are thick in the air and before he can marshal his will, his body betrays him and everything he's eaten for the past few days is pushing itself up his throat spewing over the cracked, grimy asphalt that only minutes earlier, he'd been lying on.
He spits a few times to clear his mouth as best he can, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while wishing he had a piece of gum, a glass of water, a shot of Jack- anything, to get that taste out of his mouth. Unsteadily, he pushes himself to his feet, braces himself against the side of the closest brick wall, and glances the length of the alley. He can make out three sides of brick, three older buildings that box him in, a battered,dented, scrawled dumpster, and an entry point from a darkened street. He sweeps his gaze carefully over the ground under his feet-asphalt peppered with sand, further on a crumpled, discarded plastic bag, and a standard issue manhole cover. He turns his gaze in the opposite direction, he is looking for…
there it is.
His Colt 1911, a few feet away, is lying at the foot of another derelict dumpster, lit by the dim light of a nearly full moon and the dull,dusty glare of a flickering streetlight. When he moves,his head hurts worse, if that's possible. He doesn't know how he ended up here, and his eyes aren't cooperating but he can make out the familiar shape when he squints. There's just enough light available to touch off the pearl glow of the grip, to send out a shimmering tracer to etch an outline along the top edge of the silver barrel. As he reaches for it, the image before him doubles, then splinters before returning to the increasingly familiar featureless blur. It takes effort to get his eyes to focus.
He's too far away. His head hurts. He isn't sure if he is going to be able to keep his feet, but he tries. He staggers, stumbles, but he's moving in the right direction, getting nearer-almost there. The nausea is rolling in his stomach again. He's pretty sure it wasn't this difficult the last time he tried walking. He can feel aches and pains he didn't know he had minutes earlier, clawing at his muscles, new bruises blossoming beneath his skin.
He doesn't feel right. Hello, Captain Obvious.
He isn't drunk, this doesn't feel like drunk. Splitting headache,lack of coordination, plus wonky vision equals concussion. Besides,he never drinks when he's working. And he must be working a job,right?
He doesn't remember.
These days, he rarely even lets his guard down when he's not working. To get so drunk that he can't keep his wits, his balance, can't fire on all eight cylinders is dangerous. He can't afford to be sloppy. Careless hunters get to be dead hunters pretty damned quick. Dad and...Bobby both have told him that more times than he can count, usually when some hunter they knew has turned up dead.
He can't risk being slowed down, physically or mentally, by anything that will dull his edge. There's too much at stake,too much that can go wrong, too quickly. He has too much responsibility to squander any possible advantage he may have, for a temporary distraction, or the fleeting numbness brought on by booze or drugs. Although, he might welcome that now, if it would rid him of this damn headache. He can feel his pulse pounding steadily behind his eyes and he has a lump on the back of his head that feels like one of the foothills of the Ozarks.
He reaches back and gives the lump a tentative examination, it's tender to the touch, sticky with his blood,and with the slightest pressure, the pain changes tempo, amping up from a dull,persistent pounding to a steady, sharp-edged throbbing. His fingers come away bloody,but there's only a little. He's okay-mostly. Head wounds bleed a lot, usually look worse than they are. The voice in his head is rough but reassuringly familiar-Dad. He knows he's been hurt like this before-although he isn't sure how he knows, no immediate details are available.
He moves forward slowly until he is standing over the Colt. He reaches down but his fingers are grasping empty air and the ground beneath him seems to shift without his consent. His balance is just gone. He reels from one handhold to the next against the dumpster. He can feel darkness descending and tries to force it away. He can't pass out yet, something else needs to be found. He takes another step but his legs are like liquid.
“Sam-uh,Sammy?” The name comes to him unbidden, but he knows it's important, that the person it's attached to, is important.
He can't see that well. He can't hear. His head is pounding so loud he wonders if the noise inside his skull is enough to have made him deaf. He hears a memory- a few loud,fast beats of Good Times,Bad Times followed by a ripping guitar riff… but even the memory of the sound is too much in his aching head. He wills it away and tries not to think of anything. He can't seem to focus. He shakes his head trying to banish the encroaching fog from his vision, but that is so not the right thing to do.
He lets go of the wall,nearly doubling over. One hand grabbing his head while the fingers of the other, smarter than his brain at the moment, quickly return to the wall to tighten on the edges of chipped,dirty brick, leaving the Colt abandoned.
A highlight reel is unfurling in his memory- a small, warm weight bundled in a soft,pale blanket held close to his chest,the cool night air juxtaposed with the rising heat burning high above him from the nursery window. There's an explosive cascade of shattered glass, over-heated air, sparks, and ash falling from above just as his father's strong arms catch them both up and carry them away to safety, he thinks it's odd how the ashes look a little like snow. He's still holding Sammy, their precious little gem, keeping him safe, when the firetruck and rescue squad arrive.
He's held on for what feels like hours-only partially relinquishing his charge to Dad, he cries quietly and sits still next to Dad, but he doesn't let go completely. He waits with his fingers curled tightly in the edges of Sam's blanket while Dad keeps them both close-Sam in his arms, Dean tucked near at his side,and waits for his life to return to normal.
He finally relaxes his hold enough for Dad to see if either of them need to be checked out by the E. M. T. . He submits to being poked and prodded because Dad is right there but the moment he thinks the other man might try to separate them, he loses it. He cries and screams until Dad makes everything okay by swearing he was just allowing the man to do his job-checking them all over,looking for injuries-that if they go anywhere it will be together. Dean doesn't throw tantrums, not ever,but he's frightened in a way he's never been, desperate not to lose anyone else, everyone else, he loves tonight.
Dad hugs him tight,wipes at his tears, as Sammy smiles at him,waving a tiny hand, and coos him a soft baby song until, after a while, he's calm enough to wipe at his still-falling tears with his hand and sit next to Dad again. But there's a part of him that has gone dark with his mother's absence, because he's cold. Shivering despite the blanket wrapped around him, the heat from the nearby flames, and even with Dad's nearness, because he knows his mom won't be there to hold him in her lap and make it better.
Dad refuses more than minor medical treatment-tells the other man he's fine in a way that makes him leave pretty quickly after he and Sammy get checked over. He has a small burn on his arm probably from a few descending sparks or some bit of falling debris, The E. M. T. put some cream and a Band-Aid on it., just like Dad's. But Dad's burns are bigger and he has more. and his eyes feel sore. Dad's are red-rimmed and shiny,so they probably hurt too, but he's not crying. Mom would've kissed his boo-boo better before putting on the cream and he can't keep from crying.
He's being brave,trying to be, but he can't make himself look beneath the blanket to see if Sammy's hurt. He knows Dad did, before the E. M. T., Dad says he did a good job,getting Sammy away safe. Dean is worried though, because Sam is just a baby and he can't tell them if he's hurt. Sammy hasn't cried much through all this and he's not sure if that's good or not. He chews at his lip and stays quietly watchful beside his small family. When the E. M. T. had calmly tried to reassure them both that Sammy is fine but recommended they all be taken to the hospital for observation Dean didn't know what that meant, but he'd felt his heart get bigger when the man said Baby Sammy is okay. After the man leaves, they sit on the hood of the Impala and cling together, watching everything normal burn to ash.
He wants his mom, but he knows Dad couldn't save her. She isn't here and the firefighters aren't going in anymore. He knows she isn't coming out, either. His chest aches so bad at that thought that it steals his breath from his lungs. He doesn't know how he is still alive if he can't breathe, but that doesn't matter much. If he dies he gets to be with his mom and if he lives he'll be with Sammy and Dad. He wants to tell Dad they'll be okay, but he can't with all his air gone. He's a good boy, he'll do his best to make it better for Sam and Dad-but he isn't sure they're ever going to be alright.
Good boys don't lie. He decides he just won't say anything.
Sudden sounds of crying rise over the clamor of the other sounds around him and he's not even sure if it's him or Sammy, but when he sees Dad flinch, something rips loose in his chest.
He'll be good. He'll be quiet. He'll do as he's told. Dad needs him. Sam needs him.
He rocks himself to the memory of a lullaby sung in his mother's voice, holding tight to Sam's chubby little body. His voice is gone, only soft humming remains,but his body knows what to do. The gentle, repetitive motions seem to sooth them both. Sam settles, and eventually, the crying stops.
He doesn't say a word-for months-to anyone but Sam.
He doesn't remember if they went to the hospital.
There's a brief flare of light in his peripheral vision,that snatches him out of the memory, but he can't focus and when he turns his head toward it, he feels like it might roll off his shoulders and keep going. As quickly as the source of light appeared,whatever it was-is gone, and the alley returns to a state of almost total darkness.
Where is Sam? Why isn't he here?
Another memory comes crashing hard into his awareness. They are in one of the first of a lifetime's worth of motel rooms, after being passed around by the few friends, acquaintances, and relatives they could stay with while Dad made arrangements for the memorial service, gathered their few surviving belongings from the house, and cut the last of their ties with Lawrence. He's tired. His stomach hurts, but he's not sure if it's because he's hungry or because they passed his favorite park on the way to wherever the road is taking them and it hadn't occurred to him until now that they might have to move to another town. He'd thought they'd be going home soon, but then, he hadn't really understood that home wasn't a place so much as a feeling, that the changes brought on by Mom's death were permanent.
Permanent-Dean has a love/hate relationship with that word. He hadn't known then,that he and Sam were never going to have a home other than the reassurance of having each other.
He's following Dad in, his new backpack is loaded with a few hand-me-downs from some distant relative, a new toothbrush, a thrift store copy of Go, Dog, Go! andhe's got a new Hot Wheels car that doesn't look like Dad's but is still pretty good, for himself and Sam's extra diapers,formula, and clothing. There's also a small,fluffy, honey-colored teddy-bear for Sammy. Dean picked it out. Babies need soft,pretty things to play with and cuddle. The little bear is a poor substitute for a mommy, but Dean can't be there every time Sam wants to play,sometimes Dad needs to be taken care of. He's already figured that out,what he hasn't figured out is how he's going to be there for both of them, all the time.
He's so tired he feels like he can't keep his eyes open. After he sees the room, he decides that's not a bad thing. Beige everywhere. He'd known right then he didn't care much for motel rooms. This is nothing like his room at home, the trapped air's stale and smells like cigarette smoke, even though the “no smoking” symbol is posted on the back of the door. Even at almost five, he knows what it means, but somebody else didn't follow the rules. The walls are beige,as is the matted carpet,the scratchy bedspread, and all the furniture. It's an ugly room. Even the painting over the big bed is ugly, the colors smeared carelessly over the canvas. All the thick blobs of beige, sorta sea-foam green, what might be mauve or pink,and a color that looks like someone threw up a Dreamsicle, make him think whoever painted it was really mad. He's too exhausted to care. Once he closes his eyes he won't have to see all the ugly, and if they're lucky,they won't be here long. He misses his room, his toys, and stuffed animals. He misses his books,too. Mom was teaching him to read.
He misses her more than anything.
He hasn't spoken for days-hasn't wanted to, but he curls up toward Dad when he pulls back the top sheet and places Sam very gently on the mattress,waits patiently while Dad gets Sam settled,already yawning. Dad ruffles his hair and checks the salt lines, he reaches beneath his pillow, checking for something there, too, before he lays down and tugs the sheet over them. He kisses Dean's forehead and offers him what passes for a smile now. Dean can see his eyes are dark underneath and red-rimmed-he's tired and sad. He's pretty sure his own eyes look that way too, but he tries not to cry anymore, when anyone is around.
Dad hasn't cried since they had to say goodbye to mom. Except that time when he thought Dean was asleep-but he wasn't. Dad had looked really mad but then he'd sighed, asked Dean why he was out of bed, gotten him a glass of water,then tucked him in again. When he'd kissed Dean night-night his whiskers had been scratchy on Dean's cheek,something they weren't before, and he had smiled but it wasn't like a real smile-he still looked sad.
He'd wished so hard he could make that look go away.
He lays still, taking deep, even breaths, and listens to the noises the heater makes when it kicks on, hears the slow, steady drip of the bathroom faucet, sounds of a car door closed nosily, and the low,constant hum of traffic passing in the distance. It isn't long before Dad is asleep, Sammy, too. He's tired,wants to sleep,but he has a job to do. He quietly climbs out of bed to inspect the pale, narrow line across the nearby window. He's been doing this for a week or so. Since Dad came back from talking to that lady he's started doing this whenever they stop,wherever they sleep. Dean's not sure why.
Not touching-only looking, he checks the lines, does the same with the salt drawn before the door's threshold. He knows Dad is careful to keep the row of salt unbroken. Everything Dad does is important. Everything. When he feels like talking again, he's going to have lots of questions. Satisfied the line is secure, that they are safe, he slips beneath the sheet, careful not to disturb the ones he loves, and falls asleep beside his small, shattered family.
Dad is still sleeping deeply, if restlessly, when he wakes. It's still early, judging from the soft gray light coming in from outside. His eyes find Sammy before he even realizes he's looking for him. His brother lays cradled between them, with softness surrounding him, nestled in his own little pillow fort, sucking greedily on his pacifier, tugging at his big toe. When Dean pulls him closer-only really content these days when his little brother is within reach, he smiles at him. Dean is still on the verge of sleep, eyelids drooping,with every intention of going back to sleep, when Sammy bops him in the nose with a tiny fist and gurgles happily.
“You get a free pass for nose boops, Sammy. Only 'cause you're cute,though.”, he whispers around a yawn. He puts a finger to his lips to show his baby brother he's shared a secret. He smiles when tiny fingers grip and tug at his. “Don't tell anybody.”
Dean pulls him close and breathes in the scent of baby powder, formula, Ivory soap, and Sam. He kisses the little cheek and delights in the babbling Sam makes in response. He knows he'll have to speak again, eventually, someone has to teach Sammy to talk, but now he needs time, needs things to be simpler. If he doesn't talk, he won't be expected to answer questions. Or talk about his feelings that he doesn't have the right words for. He won't have to explain why they don't have a home, or a puppy, or a mom.
Dad is too busy, too tired, in too much pain. For the time being there's no pressure to comply, or conform. Dad rarely talks in more than four word sentences now, except for when he's hunting, then it might not even be four words. Dean doesn't understand everything, but he understands enough. Dad thinks something caused the fire, thinks something killed their mom. His anger and exhaustion are making him blind to more than caring for their basic needs. They have clothes,food,formula, diapers, and a television.
But they don't really have Dad.
He spends days reading books layered thick with dust and covered with pictures that look like someone took a crayon to the cover. In his search to find answers, he is constantly on the phone or a computer doing research, always writing in that book he keeps close. Sometimes he takes the boys with him when he goes to the library or to talk to people, but Dean doesn't like the way people look at them then. Dad doesn't seem to like it either.
Other than that, he fails to take much notice, and Sammy doesn't care if Dean doesn't choose to talk to anyone but him. He takes care of Sam a lot now. He's gotten good at knowing how to make a bottle and which foods he likes best. He's starting to understand how much work it was for Mom,taking care of them. He kisses Sam's forehead softly, whispers that he loves him and that Dad loves him too, even if he hasn't said so lately. He pulls Sammy against his chest and watches Sam until he's asleep. He falls back to sleep counting those tiny baby eyelashes while Sam snores softly beside him, little hand holding the folds of his big brother's pajama shirt.
There are other memories-some happy, some not. Some are downright terrifying. The images are coming too fast, he can't grasp them, categorize, or separate them, there are too many. Some seem wrong-torn out of context-others are just piecemeal bits of his strange life in a mishmash of color,motion, and sound with a solitary constant, almost all of them are of…
Sam.
He thinks he may have said it out loud but he isn't sure.
“Dean?”
He hears a sound, turns instinctively toward it, but his head hurts so badly he flinches his eyes closed to keep the piercing pain from the bright,watery light away. He forces himself to open them slowly but that does little more than allow him to see the shadow that has fallen over him. He startles despite himself. The beam of the flashlight is blinding. Two broad, familiar hands are on him. He thinks he might have heard his name called, but all his energy is focused on staying upright. He hurts. The pounding in his head is so freakin' loud, thankfully, the voice is soft and close. He aches all over. He's going to hurl. Again. He tries to stop, tries to wave his brother off, but it's too late. He's heaving up water,then he's just heaving.
“Oh man, you're hurt. Let me see.”
It takes longer than he thinks it should for his stomach to stop throwing a tantrum. Even after he waits a bit, he's still not sure he's not going to hurl again, but he's got more serious concerns.
“Sam,where- ? I was-the fugly, was in the alley. I was right on it's tail. It turned down the alley and I...it was just...gone. But then I ... ”
Sam's hands are on his shoulders, supporting him, carefully turning him toward the light, but Dean can't take it, the light's too much. He pulls away, doesn't even realize he's falling before his knees give out.
“Hey, whoa, I've got you.”
The darkness is back, more persistent now, narrowing his vision,tugging him down into the inky, waiting depths. A sudden,instinctive sense of fear seizes him-full heart-shuddering, cold chills,goose-fleshed panic and he's fighting, because isn't that what he... what they do?
Despite the fact that Sam is here and they are both standing on dry land,Well, Sam, is anyway, he has the horrifying thought that they're both going to drown if he can't save them. He swings out his fist, launching a right hook into the night but his aim is off and the sudden movement birth's a new wave of pain that steals most of the force from his punch. He lands a glancing blow and only knows he made contact by the way the sound comes back before the tide of darkness comes to drag him under.
“Ow! Crap, Dean, What-? What's wrong?”
“T-tentacles, damn thing had tentacl-.”
“Dean, you with me? Dean?”
He thinks he wasn't out but a minute or two, but it's enough to make Sam worry. His gigantic baby brother is patting his face and calling his name. He makes a feeble grab for his hand to get his attention before Sam resorts to desperate measures.
“I'm here. It's okay, Sam. I hear you, man.” His voice sounds weak and thready over his pounding head.
“Dean?”
Sam has a tone for every occasion, his range broad and varied with nuances that express volumes depending on the stress on the syllables and the specific inflection he uses. Dean knows this from his truncated trip down memory lane. This one is clearly “Dean, you scared the crap out of me,man.” But if he couldn't hear him at all, he wouldn't have to wonder, Sam's anxiety is obvious, he looks pale, a little lost, and there's a tightness in his features that shouldn't be there. Even if Dean can't remember having seen him like this before, he doesn't like it.
Sam is careful, levering him up gently, reaching to get an arm around his back, helping to support his weight as they walk side by side, slowly. Dean concentrates on walking- no easy feat in the gloom of what is either very late night or extremely early morning. The dark and the light from the flashlight in his brother's hand are in a face-off, the movement of their gait sending light sweeping across their path in broad illuminated swaths that push away the night while the darkness hovers waiting for them to pass,eager to engulf everything behind them. Dean isn't sure if his brother is searching for clues or pitfalls or something else, but Dean squints to keep the pulse pounding throb inside his skull to a minimum and allows Sam's momentum to carry him forward,carefully guided in the right direction.
Dean feels himself lead out of the alley into the open air of the street. It's deserted, only he, Sam and the monsters are active now, when even the worst of the normalpeople have places to be. He's glad to be out here. He hears the sounds of a slumbering city-the wail of a siren far too distant to be of interest, a wary,weary bark from a dog that has hidden itself in the shadows or skulked away to find a place to den up among the dilapidated buildings that crowd the harbor, the sound of waves breaking restlessly,relentlessly, against the supports beneath the pier as they rush toward the shore.
The breeze off the water is cool against his flushed face,in the damp strands of his short cropped hair,he feels sweat sliding down his back in a fine rivulet that follows his spine, making him uncomfortable. He doesn't like how his shirt clings to his skin. He shudders,chilled by the sweat that is beading above his upper lip, pooling around his collarbone,and rolling over his ribs. The effort to walk seems to have exhausted him. He stops, forcing Sam to come to a halt beside him. He's glad he can't see Sam's worried face.
“Need a minute, need to stop,Sammy-k?”
“Yeah,sure-I'll get the car. You take it easy. I'll be right back. How about we park you on that bench?”
“Bench is good,thanks.” He can't manage complete sentences-he must be more wrecked than he'd thought.
Sam walks them a little further toward the pier and settles Dean on a rust-rimmed metal bench near the edge.
He looks up and tries for a smile but judging from his brother's reaction, he's failed spectacularly. Sam just looks more concerned.
“Wait here,Dean.”
“Will do.” He moves his head in the motion required for a simple nod but regrets it even before the dizziness has time to come to full bore. He wipes at the sweat with a trembling hand but Sam is already sprinting away,his long,smooth runner's strides quickly broadening the distance between them. Dean feels relieved he doesn't have to continue to try and act like he's fine, like Sam can't tell he isn't, but bereft in a way he couldn't possibly explain, now that his brother is gone.
He doesn't have any idea where they are, doesn't know how he ended up in that alley, and can only vaguely recall that they came here to work a case… and that something was off back there. His intuition is sending up red flags everywhere- telling him he's missed something. But since it's like,well,his memories have been put through a cross-cut shredder and thrown into a dumpster during a hurricane in the back of his brain right now, he knows he's missing a lot of somethings.
Where is Dad? He wishes Sam was back already. He isn't feeling well, at all.
There's a noise, like someone's in pain,or like someone else is. The sorrowful, forlorn moan comes again, forcing Dean to look up. Pulling his aching head from his hand,he scans the length of the pier. He doesn't see squat but the tone of muted misery is close so he gets to his feet and heads toward the end of the long, weatherbeaten pier. There isn't enough light to see much. Sam took his flashlight, Dean pats his jacket pockets, thinking he should have one, but comes up empty. He doesn't have his cell phone either. Dollars to dough-nuts they are both still somewhere near the dented dumpster where he'd found his Colt and Sammy'd found him.
Sam had handed him his sidearm after his latest round of regurgitation. He reaches back, more out of habit than to reassure himself that the solid weight at the small of his back is his1911. He's going to wait here for Sam, then they'll go find the rest of his gear. He's not up for the walk back down that alley in the dark when his eyes and head aren't cooperating.
The solitary street light is nearer to the bench than where he's standing, and it's flickering intermittently. He feels another chill slide over the back of his neck,but doesn't know why this one feels different-that's bothering him. He is cold but… maybe something is wrong.
More wrong,wronger,wrongest?
The illumination-hardly bright enough to affect the surrounding gloom,let alone light this far down the pier-is practically useless. The pier's wooden boards are splintered and warped from exposure. There's a single,small boat moored nearby. But nothing seems unusual, and he can't pinpoint a source for the sound. This part of the waterfront is old, a rarely used industrial shipping port,with very little traffic. The few businesses still here aren't operational now. There is an endless expanse of ebony sky above and dark ocean below, and except for some points of light on the far shore,there's little else to see.
“Hey, anybody there? D'you need help?”
The questions hang heavily in the still air. There's no response. He walks forward until he can feel the toes of his boots hanging over the edge, and peers out-seeing nothing. He even tries to see between the boards at his feet but except for a knot hole and a few edges where the wood has shrunk back from the neighboring boards, he can't see much but the endless waves reaching restlessly toward the shore.
The sound comes a third time-louder, almost insistent, but is overridden by the deep-throated rumble of an engine coming closer. He turns,seeing the haloed glare of headlights from a distance and walks toward them eager to be near Sam again. He's hoping for answers to the gaps in his memory and some relief from the injuries that have brought tonight's pain, but just as the reassurance that it must be his brother returning warms in his chest, he feels something catch below his knee. Something is tangled around his booted ankle. He gives his foot a halfhearted shake trying to dislodge it, thinking he's blundered into an unseen,abandoned fishing net or caught himself in a twist of sturdy line strung haphazardly across the pier.
Still intent on meeting his brother at the bench Sam had settled him on earlier, he squints, perplexed, waiting for his vision to clear. In the dark, there are shadows layered on shadows but something has him caught. His head is still pounding a staccato rhythm behind eyes that aren't working so well. Something strong has grasped his boot and the hold is tightening even more with his attempts to pull away. A closer look reveals an appendage of some sort but it doesn't look like anything he's ever seen.
He gets a glimpse of the colors of an oil slick wrapping themselves around his leg and reaches down to dislodge them, but before he gets his hands on the thing, it gives a sudden, violent jerk and he's hit with a wave of vertigo as he lurches sideways, momentum sending him over the edge of the pier into open space. He's torn away from the solidarity of the boards beneath his feet, Sam's reach, and anything that must, just minutes ago, have seemed like safety.
He's falling. He flings his hands out to catch himself. The fingertips of his left hand brush the edges of the boards and he feels the rough, raw bite of wood against his newly abraded skin. Splinters and scrapes are the least of his worries right now. Thankfully, his right hand catches, the jolt of his weight shuddering down the length of his arm as he comes to a sudden stop. He breathes deep, but it's not from relief,whatever this thing is, it's still tugging on him, doing it's best to pull him into the drink. His other hand comes up and he grips the wood above his head looking for purchase. He is dangling from the side of the pier like a tasty bit of bait on a hook and the whatever it is below seems intent on reeling him in and taking a bite.
He'd give whatever amount of money there is in his wallet to be able to see well now. He doesn't have his flashlight or phone, he can't get to the Colt or the silver knives in his boot-he only has one weapon left.
“Sam!”
He listens for the rumble of the car engine, for footsteps, for anything that might mean his brother heard him. But it's so hard to hear over the sound of his pulse pounding loud in his ears with his heart jackhammering inside his ribcage.
To Part 2
Recipient: Astarloa
Rating: teen and up
Word count: 14,885
Warnings: a little Winchester language, peril, and our boys being boys
Summary: Dean has a concussion. Sam to the rescue. Mayhem, water, and worry, all around. Set in season one.
Author's Note: Dear Astarloa, I very likely went in a direction different than you intended. I hope this makes you happy,none the less. I wish I'd had more time to work with your prompts, they were very intriguing. I combined a few. Enjoy! “whispers” Someone with more talent than me should definitely create a Dean!pot-plant,Caring!Sam,Brown-thumb!Sam piece for you and if they do, I'll be in the front of the line to congratulate you both!
---------Part 1----------
He is in pain. His head aches-badly. He's been in pain since he came to. He's laying on something hard and uneven, probably asphalt, the smell of warm tar is deep in his nose. He can feel something gritty and abrasive against his right cheek and beneath his hands. His vision is blurry. Blinking doesn't help. He pushes up, but the view doesn't get much better. Every time he moves his head the faint amount of light around him smears and twists, forming spiking halos that surround everything. That's bad enough, but factor in the rolling nausea,the galloping echoes pressing against his eardrums, and he feels like he is almost certainly going to hurl.
He'd been alone when he regained consciousness,swallowing down bile and grit, pushing himself to his knees because apparently he'd been lying spread eagle in an alley. The odors of tar, gasoline, days-old rotting garbage, and decaying fish are thick in the air and before he can marshal his will, his body betrays him and everything he's eaten for the past few days is pushing itself up his throat spewing over the cracked, grimy asphalt that only minutes earlier, he'd been lying on.
He spits a few times to clear his mouth as best he can, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while wishing he had a piece of gum, a glass of water, a shot of Jack- anything, to get that taste out of his mouth. Unsteadily, he pushes himself to his feet, braces himself against the side of the closest brick wall, and glances the length of the alley. He can make out three sides of brick, three older buildings that box him in, a battered,dented, scrawled dumpster, and an entry point from a darkened street. He sweeps his gaze carefully over the ground under his feet-asphalt peppered with sand, further on a crumpled, discarded plastic bag, and a standard issue manhole cover. He turns his gaze in the opposite direction, he is looking for…
there it is.
His Colt 1911, a few feet away, is lying at the foot of another derelict dumpster, lit by the dim light of a nearly full moon and the dull,dusty glare of a flickering streetlight. When he moves,his head hurts worse, if that's possible. He doesn't know how he ended up here, and his eyes aren't cooperating but he can make out the familiar shape when he squints. There's just enough light available to touch off the pearl glow of the grip, to send out a shimmering tracer to etch an outline along the top edge of the silver barrel. As he reaches for it, the image before him doubles, then splinters before returning to the increasingly familiar featureless blur. It takes effort to get his eyes to focus.
He's too far away. His head hurts. He isn't sure if he is going to be able to keep his feet, but he tries. He staggers, stumbles, but he's moving in the right direction, getting nearer-almost there. The nausea is rolling in his stomach again. He's pretty sure it wasn't this difficult the last time he tried walking. He can feel aches and pains he didn't know he had minutes earlier, clawing at his muscles, new bruises blossoming beneath his skin.
He doesn't feel right. Hello, Captain Obvious.
He isn't drunk, this doesn't feel like drunk. Splitting headache,lack of coordination, plus wonky vision equals concussion. Besides,he never drinks when he's working. And he must be working a job,right?
He doesn't remember.
These days, he rarely even lets his guard down when he's not working. To get so drunk that he can't keep his wits, his balance, can't fire on all eight cylinders is dangerous. He can't afford to be sloppy. Careless hunters get to be dead hunters pretty damned quick. Dad and...Bobby both have told him that more times than he can count, usually when some hunter they knew has turned up dead.
He can't risk being slowed down, physically or mentally, by anything that will dull his edge. There's too much at stake,too much that can go wrong, too quickly. He has too much responsibility to squander any possible advantage he may have, for a temporary distraction, or the fleeting numbness brought on by booze or drugs. Although, he might welcome that now, if it would rid him of this damn headache. He can feel his pulse pounding steadily behind his eyes and he has a lump on the back of his head that feels like one of the foothills of the Ozarks.
He reaches back and gives the lump a tentative examination, it's tender to the touch, sticky with his blood,and with the slightest pressure, the pain changes tempo, amping up from a dull,persistent pounding to a steady, sharp-edged throbbing. His fingers come away bloody,but there's only a little. He's okay-mostly. Head wounds bleed a lot, usually look worse than they are. The voice in his head is rough but reassuringly familiar-Dad. He knows he's been hurt like this before-although he isn't sure how he knows, no immediate details are available.
He moves forward slowly until he is standing over the Colt. He reaches down but his fingers are grasping empty air and the ground beneath him seems to shift without his consent. His balance is just gone. He reels from one handhold to the next against the dumpster. He can feel darkness descending and tries to force it away. He can't pass out yet, something else needs to be found. He takes another step but his legs are like liquid.
“Sam-uh,Sammy?” The name comes to him unbidden, but he knows it's important, that the person it's attached to, is important.
He can't see that well. He can't hear. His head is pounding so loud he wonders if the noise inside his skull is enough to have made him deaf. He hears a memory- a few loud,fast beats of Good Times,Bad Times followed by a ripping guitar riff… but even the memory of the sound is too much in his aching head. He wills it away and tries not to think of anything. He can't seem to focus. He shakes his head trying to banish the encroaching fog from his vision, but that is so not the right thing to do.
He lets go of the wall,nearly doubling over. One hand grabbing his head while the fingers of the other, smarter than his brain at the moment, quickly return to the wall to tighten on the edges of chipped,dirty brick, leaving the Colt abandoned.
A highlight reel is unfurling in his memory- a small, warm weight bundled in a soft,pale blanket held close to his chest,the cool night air juxtaposed with the rising heat burning high above him from the nursery window. There's an explosive cascade of shattered glass, over-heated air, sparks, and ash falling from above just as his father's strong arms catch them both up and carry them away to safety, he thinks it's odd how the ashes look a little like snow. He's still holding Sammy, their precious little gem, keeping him safe, when the firetruck and rescue squad arrive.
He's held on for what feels like hours-only partially relinquishing his charge to Dad, he cries quietly and sits still next to Dad, but he doesn't let go completely. He waits with his fingers curled tightly in the edges of Sam's blanket while Dad keeps them both close-Sam in his arms, Dean tucked near at his side,and waits for his life to return to normal.
He finally relaxes his hold enough for Dad to see if either of them need to be checked out by the E. M. T. . He submits to being poked and prodded because Dad is right there but the moment he thinks the other man might try to separate them, he loses it. He cries and screams until Dad makes everything okay by swearing he was just allowing the man to do his job-checking them all over,looking for injuries-that if they go anywhere it will be together. Dean doesn't throw tantrums, not ever,but he's frightened in a way he's never been, desperate not to lose anyone else, everyone else, he loves tonight.
Dad hugs him tight,wipes at his tears, as Sammy smiles at him,waving a tiny hand, and coos him a soft baby song until, after a while, he's calm enough to wipe at his still-falling tears with his hand and sit next to Dad again. But there's a part of him that has gone dark with his mother's absence, because he's cold. Shivering despite the blanket wrapped around him, the heat from the nearby flames, and even with Dad's nearness, because he knows his mom won't be there to hold him in her lap and make it better.
Dad refuses more than minor medical treatment-tells the other man he's fine in a way that makes him leave pretty quickly after he and Sammy get checked over. He has a small burn on his arm probably from a few descending sparks or some bit of falling debris, The E. M. T. put some cream and a Band-Aid on it., just like Dad's. But Dad's burns are bigger and he has more. and his eyes feel sore. Dad's are red-rimmed and shiny,so they probably hurt too, but he's not crying. Mom would've kissed his boo-boo better before putting on the cream and he can't keep from crying.
He's being brave,trying to be, but he can't make himself look beneath the blanket to see if Sammy's hurt. He knows Dad did, before the E. M. T., Dad says he did a good job,getting Sammy away safe. Dean is worried though, because Sam is just a baby and he can't tell them if he's hurt. Sammy hasn't cried much through all this and he's not sure if that's good or not. He chews at his lip and stays quietly watchful beside his small family. When the E. M. T. had calmly tried to reassure them both that Sammy is fine but recommended they all be taken to the hospital for observation Dean didn't know what that meant, but he'd felt his heart get bigger when the man said Baby Sammy is okay. After the man leaves, they sit on the hood of the Impala and cling together, watching everything normal burn to ash.
He wants his mom, but he knows Dad couldn't save her. She isn't here and the firefighters aren't going in anymore. He knows she isn't coming out, either. His chest aches so bad at that thought that it steals his breath from his lungs. He doesn't know how he is still alive if he can't breathe, but that doesn't matter much. If he dies he gets to be with his mom and if he lives he'll be with Sammy and Dad. He wants to tell Dad they'll be okay, but he can't with all his air gone. He's a good boy, he'll do his best to make it better for Sam and Dad-but he isn't sure they're ever going to be alright.
Good boys don't lie. He decides he just won't say anything.
Sudden sounds of crying rise over the clamor of the other sounds around him and he's not even sure if it's him or Sammy, but when he sees Dad flinch, something rips loose in his chest.
He'll be good. He'll be quiet. He'll do as he's told. Dad needs him. Sam needs him.
He rocks himself to the memory of a lullaby sung in his mother's voice, holding tight to Sam's chubby little body. His voice is gone, only soft humming remains,but his body knows what to do. The gentle, repetitive motions seem to sooth them both. Sam settles, and eventually, the crying stops.
He doesn't say a word-for months-to anyone but Sam.
He doesn't remember if they went to the hospital.
There's a brief flare of light in his peripheral vision,that snatches him out of the memory, but he can't focus and when he turns his head toward it, he feels like it might roll off his shoulders and keep going. As quickly as the source of light appeared,whatever it was-is gone, and the alley returns to a state of almost total darkness.
Where is Sam? Why isn't he here?
Another memory comes crashing hard into his awareness. They are in one of the first of a lifetime's worth of motel rooms, after being passed around by the few friends, acquaintances, and relatives they could stay with while Dad made arrangements for the memorial service, gathered their few surviving belongings from the house, and cut the last of their ties with Lawrence. He's tired. His stomach hurts, but he's not sure if it's because he's hungry or because they passed his favorite park on the way to wherever the road is taking them and it hadn't occurred to him until now that they might have to move to another town. He'd thought they'd be going home soon, but then, he hadn't really understood that home wasn't a place so much as a feeling, that the changes brought on by Mom's death were permanent.
Permanent-Dean has a love/hate relationship with that word. He hadn't known then,that he and Sam were never going to have a home other than the reassurance of having each other.
He's following Dad in, his new backpack is loaded with a few hand-me-downs from some distant relative, a new toothbrush, a thrift store copy of Go, Dog, Go! andhe's got a new Hot Wheels car that doesn't look like Dad's but is still pretty good, for himself and Sam's extra diapers,formula, and clothing. There's also a small,fluffy, honey-colored teddy-bear for Sammy. Dean picked it out. Babies need soft,pretty things to play with and cuddle. The little bear is a poor substitute for a mommy, but Dean can't be there every time Sam wants to play,sometimes Dad needs to be taken care of. He's already figured that out,what he hasn't figured out is how he's going to be there for both of them, all the time.
He's so tired he feels like he can't keep his eyes open. After he sees the room, he decides that's not a bad thing. Beige everywhere. He'd known right then he didn't care much for motel rooms. This is nothing like his room at home, the trapped air's stale and smells like cigarette smoke, even though the “no smoking” symbol is posted on the back of the door. Even at almost five, he knows what it means, but somebody else didn't follow the rules. The walls are beige,as is the matted carpet,the scratchy bedspread, and all the furniture. It's an ugly room. Even the painting over the big bed is ugly, the colors smeared carelessly over the canvas. All the thick blobs of beige, sorta sea-foam green, what might be mauve or pink,and a color that looks like someone threw up a Dreamsicle, make him think whoever painted it was really mad. He's too exhausted to care. Once he closes his eyes he won't have to see all the ugly, and if they're lucky,they won't be here long. He misses his room, his toys, and stuffed animals. He misses his books,too. Mom was teaching him to read.
He misses her more than anything.
He hasn't spoken for days-hasn't wanted to, but he curls up toward Dad when he pulls back the top sheet and places Sam very gently on the mattress,waits patiently while Dad gets Sam settled,already yawning. Dad ruffles his hair and checks the salt lines, he reaches beneath his pillow, checking for something there, too, before he lays down and tugs the sheet over them. He kisses Dean's forehead and offers him what passes for a smile now. Dean can see his eyes are dark underneath and red-rimmed-he's tired and sad. He's pretty sure his own eyes look that way too, but he tries not to cry anymore, when anyone is around.
Dad hasn't cried since they had to say goodbye to mom. Except that time when he thought Dean was asleep-but he wasn't. Dad had looked really mad but then he'd sighed, asked Dean why he was out of bed, gotten him a glass of water,then tucked him in again. When he'd kissed Dean night-night his whiskers had been scratchy on Dean's cheek,something they weren't before, and he had smiled but it wasn't like a real smile-he still looked sad.
He'd wished so hard he could make that look go away.
He lays still, taking deep, even breaths, and listens to the noises the heater makes when it kicks on, hears the slow, steady drip of the bathroom faucet, sounds of a car door closed nosily, and the low,constant hum of traffic passing in the distance. It isn't long before Dad is asleep, Sammy, too. He's tired,wants to sleep,but he has a job to do. He quietly climbs out of bed to inspect the pale, narrow line across the nearby window. He's been doing this for a week or so. Since Dad came back from talking to that lady he's started doing this whenever they stop,wherever they sleep. Dean's not sure why.
Not touching-only looking, he checks the lines, does the same with the salt drawn before the door's threshold. He knows Dad is careful to keep the row of salt unbroken. Everything Dad does is important. Everything. When he feels like talking again, he's going to have lots of questions. Satisfied the line is secure, that they are safe, he slips beneath the sheet, careful not to disturb the ones he loves, and falls asleep beside his small, shattered family.
Dad is still sleeping deeply, if restlessly, when he wakes. It's still early, judging from the soft gray light coming in from outside. His eyes find Sammy before he even realizes he's looking for him. His brother lays cradled between them, with softness surrounding him, nestled in his own little pillow fort, sucking greedily on his pacifier, tugging at his big toe. When Dean pulls him closer-only really content these days when his little brother is within reach, he smiles at him. Dean is still on the verge of sleep, eyelids drooping,with every intention of going back to sleep, when Sammy bops him in the nose with a tiny fist and gurgles happily.
“You get a free pass for nose boops, Sammy. Only 'cause you're cute,though.”, he whispers around a yawn. He puts a finger to his lips to show his baby brother he's shared a secret. He smiles when tiny fingers grip and tug at his. “Don't tell anybody.”
Dean pulls him close and breathes in the scent of baby powder, formula, Ivory soap, and Sam. He kisses the little cheek and delights in the babbling Sam makes in response. He knows he'll have to speak again, eventually, someone has to teach Sammy to talk, but now he needs time, needs things to be simpler. If he doesn't talk, he won't be expected to answer questions. Or talk about his feelings that he doesn't have the right words for. He won't have to explain why they don't have a home, or a puppy, or a mom.
Dad is too busy, too tired, in too much pain. For the time being there's no pressure to comply, or conform. Dad rarely talks in more than four word sentences now, except for when he's hunting, then it might not even be four words. Dean doesn't understand everything, but he understands enough. Dad thinks something caused the fire, thinks something killed their mom. His anger and exhaustion are making him blind to more than caring for their basic needs. They have clothes,food,formula, diapers, and a television.
But they don't really have Dad.
He spends days reading books layered thick with dust and covered with pictures that look like someone took a crayon to the cover. In his search to find answers, he is constantly on the phone or a computer doing research, always writing in that book he keeps close. Sometimes he takes the boys with him when he goes to the library or to talk to people, but Dean doesn't like the way people look at them then. Dad doesn't seem to like it either.
Other than that, he fails to take much notice, and Sammy doesn't care if Dean doesn't choose to talk to anyone but him. He takes care of Sam a lot now. He's gotten good at knowing how to make a bottle and which foods he likes best. He's starting to understand how much work it was for Mom,taking care of them. He kisses Sam's forehead softly, whispers that he loves him and that Dad loves him too, even if he hasn't said so lately. He pulls Sammy against his chest and watches Sam until he's asleep. He falls back to sleep counting those tiny baby eyelashes while Sam snores softly beside him, little hand holding the folds of his big brother's pajama shirt.
There are other memories-some happy, some not. Some are downright terrifying. The images are coming too fast, he can't grasp them, categorize, or separate them, there are too many. Some seem wrong-torn out of context-others are just piecemeal bits of his strange life in a mishmash of color,motion, and sound with a solitary constant, almost all of them are of…
Sam.
He thinks he may have said it out loud but he isn't sure.
“Dean?”
He hears a sound, turns instinctively toward it, but his head hurts so badly he flinches his eyes closed to keep the piercing pain from the bright,watery light away. He forces himself to open them slowly but that does little more than allow him to see the shadow that has fallen over him. He startles despite himself. The beam of the flashlight is blinding. Two broad, familiar hands are on him. He thinks he might have heard his name called, but all his energy is focused on staying upright. He hurts. The pounding in his head is so freakin' loud, thankfully, the voice is soft and close. He aches all over. He's going to hurl. Again. He tries to stop, tries to wave his brother off, but it's too late. He's heaving up water,then he's just heaving.
“Oh man, you're hurt. Let me see.”
It takes longer than he thinks it should for his stomach to stop throwing a tantrum. Even after he waits a bit, he's still not sure he's not going to hurl again, but he's got more serious concerns.
“Sam,where- ? I was-the fugly, was in the alley. I was right on it's tail. It turned down the alley and I...it was just...gone. But then I ... ”
Sam's hands are on his shoulders, supporting him, carefully turning him toward the light, but Dean can't take it, the light's too much. He pulls away, doesn't even realize he's falling before his knees give out.
“Hey, whoa, I've got you.”
The darkness is back, more persistent now, narrowing his vision,tugging him down into the inky, waiting depths. A sudden,instinctive sense of fear seizes him-full heart-shuddering, cold chills,goose-fleshed panic and he's fighting, because isn't that what he... what they do?
Despite the fact that Sam is here and they are both standing on dry land,Well, Sam, is anyway, he has the horrifying thought that they're both going to drown if he can't save them. He swings out his fist, launching a right hook into the night but his aim is off and the sudden movement birth's a new wave of pain that steals most of the force from his punch. He lands a glancing blow and only knows he made contact by the way the sound comes back before the tide of darkness comes to drag him under.
“Ow! Crap, Dean, What-? What's wrong?”
“T-tentacles, damn thing had tentacl-.”
“Dean, you with me? Dean?”
He thinks he wasn't out but a minute or two, but it's enough to make Sam worry. His gigantic baby brother is patting his face and calling his name. He makes a feeble grab for his hand to get his attention before Sam resorts to desperate measures.
“I'm here. It's okay, Sam. I hear you, man.” His voice sounds weak and thready over his pounding head.
“Dean?”
Sam has a tone for every occasion, his range broad and varied with nuances that express volumes depending on the stress on the syllables and the specific inflection he uses. Dean knows this from his truncated trip down memory lane. This one is clearly “Dean, you scared the crap out of me,man.” But if he couldn't hear him at all, he wouldn't have to wonder, Sam's anxiety is obvious, he looks pale, a little lost, and there's a tightness in his features that shouldn't be there. Even if Dean can't remember having seen him like this before, he doesn't like it.
Sam is careful, levering him up gently, reaching to get an arm around his back, helping to support his weight as they walk side by side, slowly. Dean concentrates on walking- no easy feat in the gloom of what is either very late night or extremely early morning. The dark and the light from the flashlight in his brother's hand are in a face-off, the movement of their gait sending light sweeping across their path in broad illuminated swaths that push away the night while the darkness hovers waiting for them to pass,eager to engulf everything behind them. Dean isn't sure if his brother is searching for clues or pitfalls or something else, but Dean squints to keep the pulse pounding throb inside his skull to a minimum and allows Sam's momentum to carry him forward,carefully guided in the right direction.
Dean feels himself lead out of the alley into the open air of the street. It's deserted, only he, Sam and the monsters are active now, when even the worst of the normalpeople have places to be. He's glad to be out here. He hears the sounds of a slumbering city-the wail of a siren far too distant to be of interest, a wary,weary bark from a dog that has hidden itself in the shadows or skulked away to find a place to den up among the dilapidated buildings that crowd the harbor, the sound of waves breaking restlessly,relentlessly, against the supports beneath the pier as they rush toward the shore.
The breeze off the water is cool against his flushed face,in the damp strands of his short cropped hair,he feels sweat sliding down his back in a fine rivulet that follows his spine, making him uncomfortable. He doesn't like how his shirt clings to his skin. He shudders,chilled by the sweat that is beading above his upper lip, pooling around his collarbone,and rolling over his ribs. The effort to walk seems to have exhausted him. He stops, forcing Sam to come to a halt beside him. He's glad he can't see Sam's worried face.
“Need a minute, need to stop,Sammy-k?”
“Yeah,sure-I'll get the car. You take it easy. I'll be right back. How about we park you on that bench?”
“Bench is good,thanks.” He can't manage complete sentences-he must be more wrecked than he'd thought.
Sam walks them a little further toward the pier and settles Dean on a rust-rimmed metal bench near the edge.
He looks up and tries for a smile but judging from his brother's reaction, he's failed spectacularly. Sam just looks more concerned.
“Wait here,Dean.”
“Will do.” He moves his head in the motion required for a simple nod but regrets it even before the dizziness has time to come to full bore. He wipes at the sweat with a trembling hand but Sam is already sprinting away,his long,smooth runner's strides quickly broadening the distance between them. Dean feels relieved he doesn't have to continue to try and act like he's fine, like Sam can't tell he isn't, but bereft in a way he couldn't possibly explain, now that his brother is gone.
He doesn't have any idea where they are, doesn't know how he ended up in that alley, and can only vaguely recall that they came here to work a case… and that something was off back there. His intuition is sending up red flags everywhere- telling him he's missed something. But since it's like,well,his memories have been put through a cross-cut shredder and thrown into a dumpster during a hurricane in the back of his brain right now, he knows he's missing a lot of somethings.
Where is Dad? He wishes Sam was back already. He isn't feeling well, at all.
There's a noise, like someone's in pain,or like someone else is. The sorrowful, forlorn moan comes again, forcing Dean to look up. Pulling his aching head from his hand,he scans the length of the pier. He doesn't see squat but the tone of muted misery is close so he gets to his feet and heads toward the end of the long, weatherbeaten pier. There isn't enough light to see much. Sam took his flashlight, Dean pats his jacket pockets, thinking he should have one, but comes up empty. He doesn't have his cell phone either. Dollars to dough-nuts they are both still somewhere near the dented dumpster where he'd found his Colt and Sammy'd found him.
Sam had handed him his sidearm after his latest round of regurgitation. He reaches back, more out of habit than to reassure himself that the solid weight at the small of his back is his1911. He's going to wait here for Sam, then they'll go find the rest of his gear. He's not up for the walk back down that alley in the dark when his eyes and head aren't cooperating.
The solitary street light is nearer to the bench than where he's standing, and it's flickering intermittently. He feels another chill slide over the back of his neck,but doesn't know why this one feels different-that's bothering him. He is cold but… maybe something is wrong.
More wrong,wronger,wrongest?
The illumination-hardly bright enough to affect the surrounding gloom,let alone light this far down the pier-is practically useless. The pier's wooden boards are splintered and warped from exposure. There's a single,small boat moored nearby. But nothing seems unusual, and he can't pinpoint a source for the sound. This part of the waterfront is old, a rarely used industrial shipping port,with very little traffic. The few businesses still here aren't operational now. There is an endless expanse of ebony sky above and dark ocean below, and except for some points of light on the far shore,there's little else to see.
“Hey, anybody there? D'you need help?”
The questions hang heavily in the still air. There's no response. He walks forward until he can feel the toes of his boots hanging over the edge, and peers out-seeing nothing. He even tries to see between the boards at his feet but except for a knot hole and a few edges where the wood has shrunk back from the neighboring boards, he can't see much but the endless waves reaching restlessly toward the shore.
The sound comes a third time-louder, almost insistent, but is overridden by the deep-throated rumble of an engine coming closer. He turns,seeing the haloed glare of headlights from a distance and walks toward them eager to be near Sam again. He's hoping for answers to the gaps in his memory and some relief from the injuries that have brought tonight's pain, but just as the reassurance that it must be his brother returning warms in his chest, he feels something catch below his knee. Something is tangled around his booted ankle. He gives his foot a halfhearted shake trying to dislodge it, thinking he's blundered into an unseen,abandoned fishing net or caught himself in a twist of sturdy line strung haphazardly across the pier.
Still intent on meeting his brother at the bench Sam had settled him on earlier, he squints, perplexed, waiting for his vision to clear. In the dark, there are shadows layered on shadows but something has him caught. His head is still pounding a staccato rhythm behind eyes that aren't working so well. Something strong has grasped his boot and the hold is tightening even more with his attempts to pull away. A closer look reveals an appendage of some sort but it doesn't look like anything he's ever seen.
He gets a glimpse of the colors of an oil slick wrapping themselves around his leg and reaches down to dislodge them, but before he gets his hands on the thing, it gives a sudden, violent jerk and he's hit with a wave of vertigo as he lurches sideways, momentum sending him over the edge of the pier into open space. He's torn away from the solidarity of the boards beneath his feet, Sam's reach, and anything that must, just minutes ago, have seemed like safety.
He's falling. He flings his hands out to catch himself. The fingertips of his left hand brush the edges of the boards and he feels the rough, raw bite of wood against his newly abraded skin. Splinters and scrapes are the least of his worries right now. Thankfully, his right hand catches, the jolt of his weight shuddering down the length of his arm as he comes to a sudden stop. He breathes deep, but it's not from relief,whatever this thing is, it's still tugging on him, doing it's best to pull him into the drink. His other hand comes up and he grips the wood above his head looking for purchase. He is dangling from the side of the pier like a tasty bit of bait on a hook and the whatever it is below seems intent on reeling him in and taking a bite.
He'd give whatever amount of money there is in his wallet to be able to see well now. He doesn't have his flashlight or phone, he can't get to the Colt or the silver knives in his boot-he only has one weapon left.
“Sam!”
He listens for the rumble of the car engine, for footsteps, for anything that might mean his brother heard him. But it's so hard to hear over the sound of his pulse pounding loud in his ears with his heart jackhammering inside his ribcage.
To Part 2