Forseen Chapter 4/15
A flashback to a young Sam and Dean (so sweet.) A revelation. And the plot thickens. :) Enjoy!
Chapter Four
Sam remembered the first time he’d ever seen his brother get hurt. It was the summer when he’d turned five. They had been goofing around in the front yard, playing some silly game that Dean had come up with. Sam couldn’t remember the rules, though it probably wouldn’t have mattered considering Dean had always liked to change the rules in the middle of whatever game they were playing. He’d been notorious for that up until John had caught him doing it and had sat him down and given him a lesson on fair play.
They’d been running around, Sam chasing Dean, playing the part of whatever monster Dean had deemed him to be that day. Sam could remember making howling noises, though they had sounded more like a puppy than any type of wolf. Dean, having just finished watching some ninja movie with their father, had lined himself up and attempted to jump over the wagon they’d pulled out of the garage.
Sam remembered seeing Dean leap, foot catching the side of the Radio Flyer, and falling forward onto the cement of their driveway. Sam had run up to him, still gleeful and jovial as ever. Dean was picking himself up and Sam had wrapped his arms around his brother’s waist, signaling that he’d caught him and it was his turn to be the monster. But Dean hadn’t made the dying noises he did when he was usually caught and young Sammy had let go of his brother, smile fading as he stepped in front of him to look at his face.
Dean’s face was something Sam would never forget. His brother had been biting his lip, brows furrowed, and eyes sparkling with unshed tears. He was hugging one of his arms to his chest, nearly his entire forearm, from elbow to wrist, was littered with scrapes and peeling skin. Sam had had his fair share of skinned knees and knew how much they hurt. But Dean was usually the one who patched them up, so who was going to patch up Dean’s owwie? Sam had touched his brother tentatively, Dean struggling with all his might not to cry. But it was okay, because Sam did for him.
Sam had wailed so loudly that, looking back on it, he thought for sure the neighbors had thought one of them was dying. He’d cried and wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck again, wanting his brother to make the owwie go away. He didn’t like it, not one bit. Dean always made owwies go away.
John Winchester had come bolting out of the door, looking around madly, his hand on the hilt of a knife he kept at his side, beneath his shirt. Not spotting any monsters creeping up on his sons, he’d come over to them, kneeling down next to them and pulling Sam gently away from his brother. John had taken Dean’s arm in his hand and lifted it. Dean hadn’t even made a sound.
“I bet that hurts,” John observed, watching as Dean nodded slowly. John had stood Dean up and walked him inside, Sam following lethargically behind. Sam had watched, as though he weren’t even in the room, as John had sat Dean down, taking a washcloth and wiping the dirt and blood from Dean’s arm. His brother remained silent and still, still not crying. He’d then gone for the first aid kit and had taken out the biggest band aid Sam had ever seen. He placed it over the scrape and examined his work. When he was sure it would stick for a while, he’d put a hand to the side of Dean’s face, thumb rubbing Dean’s cheek lovingly, smiling proudly. “And you didn’t even cry,” John prided. “That’s my boy, Dean.”
Years later, Sam could still look back on the whole thing and find renewed dislike for the way their father raised them. Yeah, it was the man thing to do, not crying. But Dean had been nine. Nine years old with an arm that looked like someone had sanded the skin off. Any other kid would have been screaming like death had just gripped them by the shoulders and shook. But not Dean. No, his brother hardly ever cried. Sam had only seen him do it a few times throughout their lives. It had been Dean’s first lesson in hiding his pain. One that Sam wished he’d never gotten.
Now, sitting in the waiting room of the ER with Dean’s dried blood staining his shirt, Sam couldn’t get that nine year old boy, biting his lip and holding back tears, out of his thoughts. Sam never liked seeing Dean hurt. It just didn’t seem right. Dean was strong, always had been. And Sam had always counted on him to be. So, whenever his brother got hurt, Sam’s safe illusion of his brother’s invincibility was shattered. It left an empty hole inside of Sam, a hole which could only be patched when Dean was back on his feet, goofing around and telling Sam what to do.
The car ride to the hospital wouldn’t be one of Sam’s most fondest memories. Though Scott had been instructing Sam on how to take care of the head wound while he drove, Dean had started going downhill. His whole body had been shivering violently and hadn’t stopped, not even when Sam handed him off to the doctors. Dean had stayed awake the whole time, but had stopped answering Sam’s questions when he asked them, whether he was actually aware of anything, Sam hadn’t known. And Sam had never seen his brother look so pale.
Sam was broken from his reverie when Scott Kingly shoved a warm cup of coffee in front of his face. He looked up at the man and accepted it gratefully. “Looked like you could use some,” Scott said, taking a seat next to him. Sam took comfort in the warmth radiating from the cup.
“Thank you,” Sam said and took a sip. It was Hazelnut. Sam swooned, it was his favorite. He turned to look at Scott, who was leaning his head back against the wall, looking at the nurse’s desk. “You know,” Sam said, drawing the other man’s attention. “You don’t have to stick around. You’ve done enough for us tonight, I’m sure you want to get home, enjoy what’s left of your day off.”
Scott chuckled and waved a hand in front of his face. “I don’t mind,” he said, smiling. “Day’s almost over anyway.” Sam smiled back, unusually grateful that the man was sticking around. Sam hardly knew him, but for some reason, he trusted him. Scott Kingly had, after all, saved his brother. And beyond that, he just had a look about him that Sam found trustworthy. His hair was shaggy, like Sam’s. Nearly the same color. He wore a jacket that had the medical insignia over the right breast, and wore jeans that were well worn, tattered and stained, obviously loved. Sam couldn’t explain the unusual trust he felt towards the man.
“Well, thanks,” Sam said again, looking back towards the doors where his brother had disappeared behind. It had been an hour. An hour since Dean’s hand had slipped from his own and he’d watched him be carted off by a frenzy of doctors. It still seemed a bit surreal.
“So,” Scott said, looking for a conversation starter. Sam didn’t know if he was up for a conversation right now. But Scott went ahead anyway. “Where are you guys from?”
What a question. He didn’t exactly know how to answer that. “All over,” he said instead. “We moved around a lot. But I’ve been at Stanford the past four years.”
“Stanford?” Scott looked amused. “That’s an excellent school. What are you studying?”
“I was studying Pre-law.”
Scott let out a whistle. “Was?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah.” He sighed and tried not to let the sadness show on his face. “I’m taking a bit of a break.”
“Well, that’s allowed,” Scott said, leaning forward and grinning. “I took a three year break between my sophomore and junior years. Backpacked through Europe, you know, the normal soul searching trip.” Sam let out a half hearted chuckle. “But I bet you’ll go back.”
Sam didn’t say anything. The thought of going back to Stanford had crossed his mind many times, but he hadn’t actually planned anything out. Going back to Stanford meant finding their Dad and killing the monster that took their Mom and Jess. And that was seeming like a more impossible task every day. Besides, Stanford would remind him too much of what he had lost. The life he could have had. He didn’t know if he wanted that.
“Your brother seems like a strong guy,” Scott said, pulling Sam back from his thoughts. He looked over at him, wondering where that observation had come from. The whole ten minutes Scott had been with Dean, his brother had been incoherent and unresponsive. But Scott just smiled. “Either that or he’s got a hard head.” Sam snorted. “I’ve seen people put into comas with less of a head wound than what your brother had.”
Sam nodded. “He’s always been tough.”
Scott leaned forward. His voice was quiet when he said, “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Scott paused for a minute, chewing his lip. What he said next sent Sam’s head spinning. “Mothman’s careful with things like that.” Sam’s head snapped towards Scott, frowning, studying the other man. Sam’s heart felt as though it had skipped a beat. Did he really just hear that right?
“What?” Sam asked.
“I said Marksman’s careful like that,” Scott frowned. “The doctor, whose treating your brother. I know him. One hell of a man.”
Sam nodded, looking away and letting out a breath. He didn’t know what to think. He was sure that he heard Scott say Mothman. Sam ran his hands through his hair. He wasn’t liking this, not at all. He was pretty sure that Dean had been right, they were dealing with the Mothman. The pieces fit together too well for it to be anything else. But the thought of taking on the Mothman wasn’t something Sam was looking forward to. It was different from what they normally dealt with. In the Point Pleasant incident, the Mothman had never hurt anyone until the bridge collapsed, which Sam wasn’t so sure the Mothman was responsible for. The fact that the Mothman seemed to be going after Dean wasn’t too reassuring either. They’d have to be extra careful on this one, especially since it hadn’t started out that well.
“Mr. White?” A voice called. It took Sam half a second to realize that was supposed to be him. Sam looked up to see the doctor was looking at him. He immediately sprang to his feet, rubbing his hands together, suddenly nervous. The doctor looked tired.
“Yes,” Sam blurted, leaning a little to try and peek at the clipboard. But he couldn’t read it. “How’s my brother? Is he okay?”
The doctor smiled. “Your brother’s going to be fine,” he assured him. Sam felt the weight leave his shoulders and gave a long sigh of relief. Thank God, he thought. He ran a hand over his face, the tiredness suddenly settling into him. But he knew the doctor wasn’t done talking and forced himself to listen to the rest, willing himself to remember that Dean was going to be fine. “Your brother has a mild concussion, which doesn’t seem to be affecting him but I suspect that when he gets up and moves around, he’ll start to feel it. We stitched up the gash. I was a little concerned about the bruising around the head wound, but after examining it closer, I didn’t find any bleeding. Now, the reason your brother was in such bad shape when he came in is because he was pretty cold. Slight hypothermia, but it could have been a lot worse. We’re pumping some warm fluids into his system. It should help. Now, I usually recommend head wound patients stay here for a few days, but your brother is…well, doing miraculous. And, if there’s no further complications, he can go home tomorrow.”
Sam nodded. “Good,” he said.
The doctor smiled. “Well, it’s good for both of us. I have a feeling if he stayed around any longer, he’d have half my nursing staff running around like giddy school girls.” Sam grinned.
“So he’s awake,” Sam said, not even having to ask.
“Yes,” the doctor agreed with a smile.
“Can I see him?”
“You most certainly can,” the doctor paused for a minute. “If you want to stick around for a while, I can arrange to have a cot brought to the room.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need it,” Sam said.
Sam turned to say goodbye to Scott, but the other man was already gone. He frowned, weirded out that the other man hadn’t stuck around to see how Dean was doing. But still, there was something about him that made Sam believe he wouldn’t hurt them. Pushing those thoughts aside, he headed towards Dean’s room. He wasn’t really expecting what was behind the door. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this. Dean was laying on the bed, his arms crossed on his stomach. His head was turned to the side, a large bandage taped there. But what got to Sam the most were the bruises that covered the left side of Dean’s head. He had a black eye, and the bruising stretched and spanned out to his cheekbone and even trickled down onto his chin. It disappeared back underneath his hairline and Sam could only imagine how far it went. No wonder the doctors had been worried. It looked awful.
When Sam closed the door, Dean’s eyes opened. Sam was surprised, thinking his brother had fallen asleep. But Dean looked at him and smiled. “Do I look good in green?” Dean asked, voice tired, referring to the hospital gown he was wearing.
Sam smiled and walked over to the bed, pulling a chair in close. “Nah, it takes away from your eyes,” Sam said. Dean scoffed and closed his eyes. Sam watched him for a second, reminding himself that Dean was doing miraculous. “How you feeling?” Sam asked, tempted to take Dean’s hand, but holding himself back. Dean may be hurt, but he still didn’t do the Lifetime moments.
“Like I need to kill something,” Dean said, smiling slowly. Sam couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Well, you might get your chance,” Sam admitted slowly. Dean frowned at him, eyeing him to go on. “I believe you now.”
“I knew you’d come around,” Dean said, still smiling.
Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair. “But now we have bigger issues to deal with. The last time the Mothman was around, it was predicting a disaster. If it’s back, that can only mean something similar to what happened in Point Pleasant is going to happen again.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed, looking awake now. Sam could only feel relieved. His brother really did have a hard head. “So all we have to do is find out what it is and stop it from happening. So, get to work, Sammy.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s not going to be that easy.” Sam paused for a minute, suddenly thinking of something. “Dean, last time, it never hurt anyone. It just flew around and spooked them. It never ran anyone off the road.” Sam continued, already knowing what Dean was going to say. “Forget the movie, that was creative license.”
“Well I hope so,” Dean said, eyeing Sam. “Otherwise I’d have a brain tumor and you’d be on your own.”
Sam’s face paled slightly and he stared hard at his brother, letting him know that he didn’t appreciate the joke. Not at all. “That’s not funny,” he said to emphasize his feelings. Dean just shrugged and shifted his head a bit, closing his eyes as pain shot through his temple. Sam waited for it to pass. When Dean opened his eyes again, he looked suddenly thoughtful.
“People listen to pain,” he said softly.
Sam frowned. “What?”
“People listen to pain,” Dean said more soundly. “Sammy, think about it. You flash some lights and howl a little and people just think it’s weird. You run someone off the road and people start paying attention.”
It made sense. Actually, it made perfect sense. In Point Pleasant, it hadn’t hurt anyone. It scared them, but hadn’t actually hurt them. So people thought it was just some paranormal mystery, they didn’t stop to listen to what the messages or strange phone calls had to say. Suddenly, Sam whirled and looked for a piece of paper. He saw a pad lying on the table across the room. Pulling a pen out of his pocket, he walked over to it and started scribbling.
“Sammy?” Dean called.
Sam didn’t answer at first, just continued writing. When he was done, he picked it up and turned back to Dean. “You’re right,” he said.
“Of course I’m right,” Dean chided.
Sam ignored the comment and walked over to him. “The phone call, the one from Jess. It’s like you said. This thing knew how to get to me. It knew I would listen to Jess, because I wanted it to be her so badly.” Sam caught the softened look Dean gave him but he didn’t say anything. “Dean, it’s already given us clues to work with.”
“Well come on, Fenton, start sleuthing,” Dean lifted a hand and shoved Sam weakly.
Sam frowned and looked at him. “Fenton?”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Fenton Hardy.” At Sam’s blank look, Dean rolled his eyes gently so as not to hurt his head. “Come on, didn’t you ever read Hardy Boys?”
“No,” Sam shook his head and frowned further. “When did you ever read them? I don’t remember you ever having one.”
Dean grinned. “Algebra class.” He chuckled at the memory. “Got caught. Still don’t know how number 47 ends.”
Sam laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m glad you made good use of your school time.”
“I did,” Dean pointed a finger at him. “I mastered the art of charming my way to a passing grade.” Sam laughed again and Dean smiled. He took the paper from Sam’s hand and held it in front of him. He frowned and moved it in and out. Sam watched him, wondering what he was doing. Finally, Dean sighed and held the paper out to Sam. “You read it.”
Sam took the paper tentatively. “You having trouble focusing?” Sam asked, wondering if perhaps the doctors had been wrong. Perhaps his brother was still in danger.
“Just read the paper,” Dean demanded, his voice annoyed. Sam watched him for a second more before looking down.
“When she called, she said this, and exactly this. Hello, Sam. I love you Sam. Manheim needs his bone. Save my baby. Is that a bad man? Do you see the birds? Sammy, I’m sorry. He will see.” Sam put the paper down, not liking how his mood was starting to drop again. He could hear Jess’s voice, distinct as ever, saying she loved him. Damn, this thing really knew how to make him listen. The thought made him flinch and look at Dean, who was processing the gibberish in his head, looking thoughtful. Mothman really knew how to make him listen. He hadn’t believed Dean until they’d gone off the road. Maybe that was supposed to get his attention. It worked. It worked like a charm.
“That’s messed up,” Dean said, bringing Sam back to the present. He nodded in agreement. “What do you think it means?”
“Well,” Sam said. “The he will see part I think was referring to you in the bathroom. I think all the parts where she says my name was just making sure it had my attention. But the others, I have no clue.”
“Damn,” Dean cussed and put a hand to his face. “Manheim sounds like a name,” Dean said. Sam looked down at it written on the paper and nodded in agreement. “Start there.”
“Dean,” Sam said, folding the paper and putting it into his pocket. “We don’t even know where it wants us to go. Besides, I hate to break it to you, but it’s gonna be a while before we’ll be able to drive anywhere.”
His brother looked passive for a moment, remembering what had been done to his baby. Sam sympathized. The car had been a mess and he didn’t want to say anything to Dean, but he wasn’t sure if it could be fixed. Dean’s eyes suddenly opened wide and he looked up at Sam. “What?” Sam asked, knowing that look. Dean was making revelations.
“Maybe we’re not supposed to drive anywhere,” Dean said. “Maybe we’re already here.”
Go to Chapter Five
Chapter Four
Sam remembered the first time he’d ever seen his brother get hurt. It was the summer when he’d turned five. They had been goofing around in the front yard, playing some silly game that Dean had come up with. Sam couldn’t remember the rules, though it probably wouldn’t have mattered considering Dean had always liked to change the rules in the middle of whatever game they were playing. He’d been notorious for that up until John had caught him doing it and had sat him down and given him a lesson on fair play.
They’d been running around, Sam chasing Dean, playing the part of whatever monster Dean had deemed him to be that day. Sam could remember making howling noises, though they had sounded more like a puppy than any type of wolf. Dean, having just finished watching some ninja movie with their father, had lined himself up and attempted to jump over the wagon they’d pulled out of the garage.
Sam remembered seeing Dean leap, foot catching the side of the Radio Flyer, and falling forward onto the cement of their driveway. Sam had run up to him, still gleeful and jovial as ever. Dean was picking himself up and Sam had wrapped his arms around his brother’s waist, signaling that he’d caught him and it was his turn to be the monster. But Dean hadn’t made the dying noises he did when he was usually caught and young Sammy had let go of his brother, smile fading as he stepped in front of him to look at his face.
Dean’s face was something Sam would never forget. His brother had been biting his lip, brows furrowed, and eyes sparkling with unshed tears. He was hugging one of his arms to his chest, nearly his entire forearm, from elbow to wrist, was littered with scrapes and peeling skin. Sam had had his fair share of skinned knees and knew how much they hurt. But Dean was usually the one who patched them up, so who was going to patch up Dean’s owwie? Sam had touched his brother tentatively, Dean struggling with all his might not to cry. But it was okay, because Sam did for him.
Sam had wailed so loudly that, looking back on it, he thought for sure the neighbors had thought one of them was dying. He’d cried and wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck again, wanting his brother to make the owwie go away. He didn’t like it, not one bit. Dean always made owwies go away.
John Winchester had come bolting out of the door, looking around madly, his hand on the hilt of a knife he kept at his side, beneath his shirt. Not spotting any monsters creeping up on his sons, he’d come over to them, kneeling down next to them and pulling Sam gently away from his brother. John had taken Dean’s arm in his hand and lifted it. Dean hadn’t even made a sound.
“I bet that hurts,” John observed, watching as Dean nodded slowly. John had stood Dean up and walked him inside, Sam following lethargically behind. Sam had watched, as though he weren’t even in the room, as John had sat Dean down, taking a washcloth and wiping the dirt and blood from Dean’s arm. His brother remained silent and still, still not crying. He’d then gone for the first aid kit and had taken out the biggest band aid Sam had ever seen. He placed it over the scrape and examined his work. When he was sure it would stick for a while, he’d put a hand to the side of Dean’s face, thumb rubbing Dean’s cheek lovingly, smiling proudly. “And you didn’t even cry,” John prided. “That’s my boy, Dean.”
Years later, Sam could still look back on the whole thing and find renewed dislike for the way their father raised them. Yeah, it was the man thing to do, not crying. But Dean had been nine. Nine years old with an arm that looked like someone had sanded the skin off. Any other kid would have been screaming like death had just gripped them by the shoulders and shook. But not Dean. No, his brother hardly ever cried. Sam had only seen him do it a few times throughout their lives. It had been Dean’s first lesson in hiding his pain. One that Sam wished he’d never gotten.
Now, sitting in the waiting room of the ER with Dean’s dried blood staining his shirt, Sam couldn’t get that nine year old boy, biting his lip and holding back tears, out of his thoughts. Sam never liked seeing Dean hurt. It just didn’t seem right. Dean was strong, always had been. And Sam had always counted on him to be. So, whenever his brother got hurt, Sam’s safe illusion of his brother’s invincibility was shattered. It left an empty hole inside of Sam, a hole which could only be patched when Dean was back on his feet, goofing around and telling Sam what to do.
The car ride to the hospital wouldn’t be one of Sam’s most fondest memories. Though Scott had been instructing Sam on how to take care of the head wound while he drove, Dean had started going downhill. His whole body had been shivering violently and hadn’t stopped, not even when Sam handed him off to the doctors. Dean had stayed awake the whole time, but had stopped answering Sam’s questions when he asked them, whether he was actually aware of anything, Sam hadn’t known. And Sam had never seen his brother look so pale.
Sam was broken from his reverie when Scott Kingly shoved a warm cup of coffee in front of his face. He looked up at the man and accepted it gratefully. “Looked like you could use some,” Scott said, taking a seat next to him. Sam took comfort in the warmth radiating from the cup.
“Thank you,” Sam said and took a sip. It was Hazelnut. Sam swooned, it was his favorite. He turned to look at Scott, who was leaning his head back against the wall, looking at the nurse’s desk. “You know,” Sam said, drawing the other man’s attention. “You don’t have to stick around. You’ve done enough for us tonight, I’m sure you want to get home, enjoy what’s left of your day off.”
Scott chuckled and waved a hand in front of his face. “I don’t mind,” he said, smiling. “Day’s almost over anyway.” Sam smiled back, unusually grateful that the man was sticking around. Sam hardly knew him, but for some reason, he trusted him. Scott Kingly had, after all, saved his brother. And beyond that, he just had a look about him that Sam found trustworthy. His hair was shaggy, like Sam’s. Nearly the same color. He wore a jacket that had the medical insignia over the right breast, and wore jeans that were well worn, tattered and stained, obviously loved. Sam couldn’t explain the unusual trust he felt towards the man.
“Well, thanks,” Sam said again, looking back towards the doors where his brother had disappeared behind. It had been an hour. An hour since Dean’s hand had slipped from his own and he’d watched him be carted off by a frenzy of doctors. It still seemed a bit surreal.
“So,” Scott said, looking for a conversation starter. Sam didn’t know if he was up for a conversation right now. But Scott went ahead anyway. “Where are you guys from?”
What a question. He didn’t exactly know how to answer that. “All over,” he said instead. “We moved around a lot. But I’ve been at Stanford the past four years.”
“Stanford?” Scott looked amused. “That’s an excellent school. What are you studying?”
“I was studying Pre-law.”
Scott let out a whistle. “Was?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah.” He sighed and tried not to let the sadness show on his face. “I’m taking a bit of a break.”
“Well, that’s allowed,” Scott said, leaning forward and grinning. “I took a three year break between my sophomore and junior years. Backpacked through Europe, you know, the normal soul searching trip.” Sam let out a half hearted chuckle. “But I bet you’ll go back.”
Sam didn’t say anything. The thought of going back to Stanford had crossed his mind many times, but he hadn’t actually planned anything out. Going back to Stanford meant finding their Dad and killing the monster that took their Mom and Jess. And that was seeming like a more impossible task every day. Besides, Stanford would remind him too much of what he had lost. The life he could have had. He didn’t know if he wanted that.
“Your brother seems like a strong guy,” Scott said, pulling Sam back from his thoughts. He looked over at him, wondering where that observation had come from. The whole ten minutes Scott had been with Dean, his brother had been incoherent and unresponsive. But Scott just smiled. “Either that or he’s got a hard head.” Sam snorted. “I’ve seen people put into comas with less of a head wound than what your brother had.”
Sam nodded. “He’s always been tough.”
Scott leaned forward. His voice was quiet when he said, “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Scott paused for a minute, chewing his lip. What he said next sent Sam’s head spinning. “Mothman’s careful with things like that.” Sam’s head snapped towards Scott, frowning, studying the other man. Sam’s heart felt as though it had skipped a beat. Did he really just hear that right?
“What?” Sam asked.
“I said Marksman’s careful like that,” Scott frowned. “The doctor, whose treating your brother. I know him. One hell of a man.”
Sam nodded, looking away and letting out a breath. He didn’t know what to think. He was sure that he heard Scott say Mothman. Sam ran his hands through his hair. He wasn’t liking this, not at all. He was pretty sure that Dean had been right, they were dealing with the Mothman. The pieces fit together too well for it to be anything else. But the thought of taking on the Mothman wasn’t something Sam was looking forward to. It was different from what they normally dealt with. In the Point Pleasant incident, the Mothman had never hurt anyone until the bridge collapsed, which Sam wasn’t so sure the Mothman was responsible for. The fact that the Mothman seemed to be going after Dean wasn’t too reassuring either. They’d have to be extra careful on this one, especially since it hadn’t started out that well.
“Mr. White?” A voice called. It took Sam half a second to realize that was supposed to be him. Sam looked up to see the doctor was looking at him. He immediately sprang to his feet, rubbing his hands together, suddenly nervous. The doctor looked tired.
“Yes,” Sam blurted, leaning a little to try and peek at the clipboard. But he couldn’t read it. “How’s my brother? Is he okay?”
The doctor smiled. “Your brother’s going to be fine,” he assured him. Sam felt the weight leave his shoulders and gave a long sigh of relief. Thank God, he thought. He ran a hand over his face, the tiredness suddenly settling into him. But he knew the doctor wasn’t done talking and forced himself to listen to the rest, willing himself to remember that Dean was going to be fine. “Your brother has a mild concussion, which doesn’t seem to be affecting him but I suspect that when he gets up and moves around, he’ll start to feel it. We stitched up the gash. I was a little concerned about the bruising around the head wound, but after examining it closer, I didn’t find any bleeding. Now, the reason your brother was in such bad shape when he came in is because he was pretty cold. Slight hypothermia, but it could have been a lot worse. We’re pumping some warm fluids into his system. It should help. Now, I usually recommend head wound patients stay here for a few days, but your brother is…well, doing miraculous. And, if there’s no further complications, he can go home tomorrow.”
Sam nodded. “Good,” he said.
The doctor smiled. “Well, it’s good for both of us. I have a feeling if he stayed around any longer, he’d have half my nursing staff running around like giddy school girls.” Sam grinned.
“So he’s awake,” Sam said, not even having to ask.
“Yes,” the doctor agreed with a smile.
“Can I see him?”
“You most certainly can,” the doctor paused for a minute. “If you want to stick around for a while, I can arrange to have a cot brought to the room.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need it,” Sam said.
Sam turned to say goodbye to Scott, but the other man was already gone. He frowned, weirded out that the other man hadn’t stuck around to see how Dean was doing. But still, there was something about him that made Sam believe he wouldn’t hurt them. Pushing those thoughts aside, he headed towards Dean’s room. He wasn’t really expecting what was behind the door. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this. Dean was laying on the bed, his arms crossed on his stomach. His head was turned to the side, a large bandage taped there. But what got to Sam the most were the bruises that covered the left side of Dean’s head. He had a black eye, and the bruising stretched and spanned out to his cheekbone and even trickled down onto his chin. It disappeared back underneath his hairline and Sam could only imagine how far it went. No wonder the doctors had been worried. It looked awful.
When Sam closed the door, Dean’s eyes opened. Sam was surprised, thinking his brother had fallen asleep. But Dean looked at him and smiled. “Do I look good in green?” Dean asked, voice tired, referring to the hospital gown he was wearing.
Sam smiled and walked over to the bed, pulling a chair in close. “Nah, it takes away from your eyes,” Sam said. Dean scoffed and closed his eyes. Sam watched him for a second, reminding himself that Dean was doing miraculous. “How you feeling?” Sam asked, tempted to take Dean’s hand, but holding himself back. Dean may be hurt, but he still didn’t do the Lifetime moments.
“Like I need to kill something,” Dean said, smiling slowly. Sam couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Well, you might get your chance,” Sam admitted slowly. Dean frowned at him, eyeing him to go on. “I believe you now.”
“I knew you’d come around,” Dean said, still smiling.
Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair. “But now we have bigger issues to deal with. The last time the Mothman was around, it was predicting a disaster. If it’s back, that can only mean something similar to what happened in Point Pleasant is going to happen again.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed, looking awake now. Sam could only feel relieved. His brother really did have a hard head. “So all we have to do is find out what it is and stop it from happening. So, get to work, Sammy.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s not going to be that easy.” Sam paused for a minute, suddenly thinking of something. “Dean, last time, it never hurt anyone. It just flew around and spooked them. It never ran anyone off the road.” Sam continued, already knowing what Dean was going to say. “Forget the movie, that was creative license.”
“Well I hope so,” Dean said, eyeing Sam. “Otherwise I’d have a brain tumor and you’d be on your own.”
Sam’s face paled slightly and he stared hard at his brother, letting him know that he didn’t appreciate the joke. Not at all. “That’s not funny,” he said to emphasize his feelings. Dean just shrugged and shifted his head a bit, closing his eyes as pain shot through his temple. Sam waited for it to pass. When Dean opened his eyes again, he looked suddenly thoughtful.
“People listen to pain,” he said softly.
Sam frowned. “What?”
“People listen to pain,” Dean said more soundly. “Sammy, think about it. You flash some lights and howl a little and people just think it’s weird. You run someone off the road and people start paying attention.”
It made sense. Actually, it made perfect sense. In Point Pleasant, it hadn’t hurt anyone. It scared them, but hadn’t actually hurt them. So people thought it was just some paranormal mystery, they didn’t stop to listen to what the messages or strange phone calls had to say. Suddenly, Sam whirled and looked for a piece of paper. He saw a pad lying on the table across the room. Pulling a pen out of his pocket, he walked over to it and started scribbling.
“Sammy?” Dean called.
Sam didn’t answer at first, just continued writing. When he was done, he picked it up and turned back to Dean. “You’re right,” he said.
“Of course I’m right,” Dean chided.
Sam ignored the comment and walked over to him. “The phone call, the one from Jess. It’s like you said. This thing knew how to get to me. It knew I would listen to Jess, because I wanted it to be her so badly.” Sam caught the softened look Dean gave him but he didn’t say anything. “Dean, it’s already given us clues to work with.”
“Well come on, Fenton, start sleuthing,” Dean lifted a hand and shoved Sam weakly.
Sam frowned and looked at him. “Fenton?”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Fenton Hardy.” At Sam’s blank look, Dean rolled his eyes gently so as not to hurt his head. “Come on, didn’t you ever read Hardy Boys?”
“No,” Sam shook his head and frowned further. “When did you ever read them? I don’t remember you ever having one.”
Dean grinned. “Algebra class.” He chuckled at the memory. “Got caught. Still don’t know how number 47 ends.”
Sam laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m glad you made good use of your school time.”
“I did,” Dean pointed a finger at him. “I mastered the art of charming my way to a passing grade.” Sam laughed again and Dean smiled. He took the paper from Sam’s hand and held it in front of him. He frowned and moved it in and out. Sam watched him, wondering what he was doing. Finally, Dean sighed and held the paper out to Sam. “You read it.”
Sam took the paper tentatively. “You having trouble focusing?” Sam asked, wondering if perhaps the doctors had been wrong. Perhaps his brother was still in danger.
“Just read the paper,” Dean demanded, his voice annoyed. Sam watched him for a second more before looking down.
“When she called, she said this, and exactly this. Hello, Sam. I love you Sam. Manheim needs his bone. Save my baby. Is that a bad man? Do you see the birds? Sammy, I’m sorry. He will see.” Sam put the paper down, not liking how his mood was starting to drop again. He could hear Jess’s voice, distinct as ever, saying she loved him. Damn, this thing really knew how to make him listen. The thought made him flinch and look at Dean, who was processing the gibberish in his head, looking thoughtful. Mothman really knew how to make him listen. He hadn’t believed Dean until they’d gone off the road. Maybe that was supposed to get his attention. It worked. It worked like a charm.
“That’s messed up,” Dean said, bringing Sam back to the present. He nodded in agreement. “What do you think it means?”
“Well,” Sam said. “The he will see part I think was referring to you in the bathroom. I think all the parts where she says my name was just making sure it had my attention. But the others, I have no clue.”
“Damn,” Dean cussed and put a hand to his face. “Manheim sounds like a name,” Dean said. Sam looked down at it written on the paper and nodded in agreement. “Start there.”
“Dean,” Sam said, folding the paper and putting it into his pocket. “We don’t even know where it wants us to go. Besides, I hate to break it to you, but it’s gonna be a while before we’ll be able to drive anywhere.”
His brother looked passive for a moment, remembering what had been done to his baby. Sam sympathized. The car had been a mess and he didn’t want to say anything to Dean, but he wasn’t sure if it could be fixed. Dean’s eyes suddenly opened wide and he looked up at Sam. “What?” Sam asked, knowing that look. Dean was making revelations.
“Maybe we’re not supposed to drive anywhere,” Dean said. “Maybe we’re already here.”
Go to Chapter Five