WARNING - "M" rated for language and heterosexual scenes. Warning reminders will be given at the start of relevant chapters.
Spoiler Alert : Season 9 themes.
A.N. : F.A.O. My much loved and very appreciated regular readers
Please know that this is not my usual "style" (hence the M) and, if you find some of the scenes uncomfortable, I apologise to you
wholeheartedly. You who know me also know that my fics grow one sentence at a time, so, what comes next is always a surprise
to me too! This fic. has some scenes that were a bloody great shock, and I gave them serious thought before leaving them in.
This tale I dedicate to my honey : MB64 : Let the whistle blow for the Story Train to once again set off...
-o-
SUMMARY : Relationships between the two Hunters have never been worse. When attempts at reconciliation fail,
it's time to separate. Alone, each fall victim to their situation, situations beyond the one's experience and the other's
control. One brother wonders, is he dead? The other lies dieing, victim to the source of the Hunt.
-o-
THREADS
Chap. 1/ Prologue
-oOo-
"Hi."
Dean Winchester didn't bother to answer or look up from the magazine article he was reading when his...Partner...walked into the bunker's kitchen in search of coffee. Pouring himself a mug of the strong, dark brew, Sam made another attempt, familiar with the routine of having to coax any kind of two way communication from his recaltrient, brother, recently. Yeah, since you finally told him how it is, how it's gonna be. Not since you finally broke him. Way to go Sam.
"Reading anything interesting?"
Dean intentionally kept his focus on the pages of the mag.
"Sure. Quiz here you might wanna try. What's your personal loyalty rating? Want me to read the questions out for you?"
"Ok, fine. I'll be in the library if you want me."
"Great. Knock yourself out. And don't worry. I won't be disturbing you any time soon. Wouldn't want to ruin the fun you'll be havin'."
Taking his coffee with him, Sam quickly headed for the doorway leading out of the kitchen. He paused just before he exited and glanced back at the top of Dean's head.
"I won't mind if you want to disturb me. Dean?"
"I hear you...Can't see any reason why I'd want to though. You plannin' on eatin' in tonight, or will you be heading off out?"
Thinking that Dean might be hoping he was staying at home and that they could eat together, Sam confirmed he intended to be around. Dean, at last, raised his head and made eye contact with him. Sam was taken aback by the cold emptiness in Dean's eyes. Never before in Sam's life had Dean looked at him in that way, no matter how much Sam had disappointed him, or hurt him, or let him down.
"Well, I'll be goin' out. Just so you know."
Dean turned away again, leaving Sam hesitating in the doorway, his insides in turmoil, opposing emotions vying with one another for dominance, uncertain whether he should say something, but equally certain that if he'd said he was going out, then Dean would have said he was staying in. Dean was aware that Sam was still hovering and he glanced up again.
"Something I can do for you, partner?"
Anger surface as the winner in Sam's internal battle, and his eyes narrowed.
"Yeah Dean, there is...Grow up!"
Turning, Sam strode off and headed for the library, not caring what impact his words may have had on Dean. In the kitchen, Dean smiled grimly. Turning his attention back to the magazine, Dean found himself reading the same lines repeatedly until, finally, he flung the magazine across the kitchen.
"Dammit!"
-o-
Dean hadn't planned to go out that evening, but stubborn pride now forced him to climb into the Impala and head out into the local town. His bar of choice was situated out of the town centre with it's selection of wine bars and theme pubs. The place he parked up at had a shabby appearance from the outside, that only got worse on the inside. The decor looked like it hadn't been up-dated since the sixties, and the small area of floor directly in front of the bar counter that had any carpet felt vaguely sticky underfoot. Every inch of woodwork had been coated in thick, dark brown varnish, haphazardly applied, and the place was a paradise of red vinyl, attempting to masquerade as leather. An old fashioned TV played over the bar, it's volume too high and the selected channel dictated by whoever was serving behind the bar that evening. None of these things mattered to Dean, he already knew that the beer was good and the food, whilst basic, had not yet made him ill. The mood he was in that evening made the bar feel plenty good enough to Dean.
-o-
He had chosen to perch on a tall stool directly at the bar. The TV was tuned into a channel devoted to the odd and bizarre. As Dean ate his burger and fries without really tasting them, he idly gazed up at the screen where the programme that was showing was dedicated to exploring weird and strange stories about the human body. A section on something called Conversion Hysteria had just finished and the narrator was excitedly talking about what was coming up next, after the break. The image on screen was a close up of a woman's bare shin and what appeared to be short but deep scratch marks. Dean became amusedly curious when the woman's fingers came into shot, and she began to pull long strands of narrow thread apparently out through the scratches, supposedly tugging the amazingly colourful particles from within her own leg where, the narrator insisted, neither she nor anyone else had first secreted them.
-o-
Despite finishing his meal, Dean hung around to watch the programme, ordering another drink. He and the barman watched as other people were shown allegedly suffering from the same mysterious condition. The barman cringed when another woman seemed to be producing these things from the tear duct of both her eyes.
"Can you believe this? It's like they've all got some kinda sewing kit inside 'em! Look at her! You're not tellin' me she stuffed all that thread down her own tear ducts? That's got to be faked, some kinda camera trick, ain't it?"
Dean shrugged.
"Maybe, but why? What would be the point?"
The narrator informed the viewers that, in every case that had so far come to light, all the sufferers were female. The barman pointed at the screen.
"There you go. Says it all right there. I'll bet they're all neurotic cows, ev'ry last one of 'em. Coloured cotton. I tell yer, 'ad to be friggin' women. You wouldn't find a guy shoving cotton into himself for no good reason. It's bloody stupid! Stupid cows. Look at that one! Pullin' bits outta her tongue! That's just gross, man ... Tell yer what though, real 'andy if you pop a button off your shirt. 'Ere you go love. Just grab some cotton out your fanny an' sew us this back on pet. Dumb bitches."
Dean pushed his empty plate over the counter to the guy. Picking up the remains of his beer, he climbed off his stool and looked coldly down at the man across the counter.
"Question for you pal."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"When were you last with a woman you didn't have to pay for up front?"
Draining his glass, Dean set it down on the bar and slid it across to the silent barman.
"Better hurry your ass back into that kitchen and set too washin' these dirty pots, pet.".
-o-
Dean had already left when Sam finally emerged from the library, and the kitchen was in darkness. For some reason, standing outside the kitchen with it's lights still off suddenly made the bunker feel very empty and Sam was surprised at the relief that switching the lights on brought. A quick scan around revealed no quickly scribbled note telling him where Dean was and suggesting that Sam join him. Everything was spotlessly clean and tidy. The only sign that anyone other than himself used the room was the magazine he had seen Dean reading earlier and which he had left lying on the kitchen table.
-o-
Opening the refrigerator, Sam gazed at it's contents. Since being at the bunker, Dean had developed a habit of keeping it stocked, after a fashion. Beer for himself and "rabbit food" for Sam. Sam cast his mind back to the days when they were both kids, and the times they had struggled to survive when their dad didn't get back from a hunt on the day he had said he would, sometimes not returning until days later. Whatever meagre remnants of food might be found hidden at the back of a cupboard, Dean always made certain that it was Sam who ate. Sam knew that on too many occasions, if there was any food available, it was only down to how light fingered Dean was, and how willing to take a risk, especially on behalf of Sam. Unbidden, an old saying drifted into Sam's thoughts. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. Sam considered the statement. Sam fretted over the words and wondered, is that what he had so recently done to Dean?
-o-
Sam's gaze focused on the six packs, the only thing in the refrigerator that Dean would consume. Realising that the actual food was all for him, it seemed to Sam like Dean's priorities hadn't changed that much from the days when they were hungry kids. Sam began pulling out the ingredients for a basic salad and moved to a work surface where he put together his evening meal, functioning on autopilot. Sam wondered whether Dean would continue to be the one who topped up their food supplies? Or whether, after Sam's grand speech to his brother a few nights ago, this would become another routine that would change now, helping to widen the ever increasing chasm between them? Sam shook his head, telling himself that it didn't matter. There was no way Sam could take back his words, or the hurt he knew he had caused, Hell, intended to cause Dean. That's the trouble with hurt. When someone hurts you, however well intended, you want to hurt them back. And Dean's self serving lie that had caused Sam to turn away from the path he wanted to take and unknowingly open himself up to angelic possession, had hurt and aggrieved Sam deeply.
-oOo-
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