This story was written for bhoney, the winning bidder for me at the Support Stacie Author Auction, April 4-6, 2009. She asked to see fallout from the final events in the episode "Sex and Violence". I hope I'm doing it justice.

Disclaimer: None of the characters, or anything related to Supernatural, belong to me. Just having a little fun.


Breaching Barricades

By: Vanessa Sgroi

Breaching Barricades

A crafty and resolute
breaching of barricades.
Finely-honed words
cut deeper and with
far more precision
than any favored knife.
Weaponry whose whisper
is far more devastating
for their smooth edges.

© 2009, Vanessa Sgroi


You're too weak… You're holding me back. I'm…better…than you… stronger, smarter…you're too scared… You're too busy sitting around feeling sorry for yourself, whining about…Hell. Boo Hoo.

You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. You are weak. You are holding me back. You are scared. Whining about your time inHell. Boo Hoo.

Weak.

Scared.

Whiny.

Sniveling.

Pathetic.

Boo Hoo.

Boo.

Hoo.

Ears and mind full of the tintinnabulous echoes of his brother's earlier words, Dean Winchester shoved back the covers on the bed and sat, dropping his feet to the floor. The carpet beneath his bare toes was shabby and oddly sticky. He resisted the urge to pull his knees up, ignored the less than pleasant feel, and stood, slowly making his way to the bathroom in the semi-darkness; the flickering neon of the Sunset View Motel provided a modicum of rather eerie illumination.

Once inside, he firmly shut the door and flipped on the light; completely avoiding looking in the chipped mirror clinging crookedly to the wall, unwilling to see the inferior man reflected back. Instead Dean twisted the right hand knob on the sink and sluiced cold water across his face, relishing the cold bite. After a couple of moments, he cupped his hands and sipped, the liquid soothing his dry throat.

Forgoing a towel, Dean swiped his t-shirt down his face and slipped from the bathroom. With a forlorn sigh, the hunter crawled back onto the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. Drawing his knees up, he let his gaze rest on his brother, Sam, sprawled in the adjacent bed, and found himself envious of the younger man's unencumbered slumber. Despite the fact that he was crazy sore from their earlier fight and beyond tired from driving the day away, Dean couldn't sleep. Sleep meant persistent, haunting nightmares. And somewhere along their monotonous trek along the highways, between the white and yellow lines, Dean came to the conclusion that sleep paved the way for the physical manifestations, provided the ammunition, which proved the truth of Sam's Siren-bolstered words.

He spent the rest of the night watching Sam sleep and listening to the internal non-stop loop of taunting words that had passed across his baby brother's lips.

You're too weak… You're holding me back. I'm…better…than you… stronger, smarter…you're too scared… You're too busy sitting around feeling sorry for yourself, whining about…Hell. Boo Hoo.

You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. You are weak. You are holding me back. You are scared. Whining about your time inHell. Boo Hoo.

Weak.

Scared.

Whiny.

Sniveling.

Pathetic.

Boo Hoo.

Boo.

Hoo.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Dean slid stiffly into the padded booth, tossing a half smile in the waitress's direction as he dropped his elbows on the table.

She smiled back and offered a breezy, "What can I get for you fellas?"

"Coffee first. Hot, black, and lots of it," responded Dean, automatically flipping over the brown stoneware mug next to his paper placemat and napkin-rolled cutlery.

"Coffee for you too, hon." She raised a brow in inquiry.

Sam nodded and turned over his own cup.

"Lemme just grab that for you while you guys look at the menu, okay?"

As she hurried away, Sam grabbed a menu from its slot, noticing right away that his brother didn't bother. "Aren't you gonna look?"

"Nope."

The younger man shifted restlessly on his side of the booth. Dean wasn't talking to him. Hadn't said more than a dozen words since his generic assurance of "Yeah, we're good" after the Siren incident yesterday morning. Sam hated the silence. Hated it. And felt guilt-ridden because his own words, no matter how twisted and corrupted by the Siren, brought it about.

"Dean, are you…are you sure we're okay? I mean, after yesterday?"

"Said we were, didn't I? You accusin' me of lyin', Sam?"

Sam's gaze dropped to the menu, the ache in his chest expanding.

"Here you go, boys. Fresh and hot for ya." The waitress, Annie according to the embroidered cursive on her uniform, deftly filled their waiting mugs with the aromatic brew. "You ready to order?" She sat the steaming pot down on the table and drew her pen and order pad from a pocket on her apron.

Dean swallowed a mouthful of coffee. "I'd like a bowl of oatmeal with lots of brown sugar on the side and a glass of orange juice."

She nodded as she scribbled on her pad. "And you?"

Sam, whose focus was back on his brother and his unusual breakfast order, snapped his menu closed. "I'll have the buckwheat pancakes, please."

"Good choice; we have the best around. I'll get this right in for you." The waitress again sashayed away, stopping to fill a couple of coffee mugs on her journey to the kitchen.

"Oatmeal?"

"Yeah, what about it?" Dean's tone held a hint of belligerence.

Sam frowned in concern. "You feeling all right?"

"How about you just concentrate on finding us a new hunt?" Dean knew his words were cold, callous even, but he couldn't seem to stop them from tumbling past his lips—not a new occurrence of late.

"I'm just worried about you," Sam tacked a frustrated sigh onto his statement.

You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. "Don't be."

Sam opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the chirp of his cell phone. He ignored the summons.

"You gonna get that?"

The younger hunter reluctantly pulled his phone from the jacket pocket, glanced at caller ID, and carefully schooled his features. Ruby. "Hello?" He made a face and quickly closed the phone with a casual shrug. "Spam call—one of those stupid car warranty calls." Sam shoved his cell back in his pocket.

"Uh huh." Dean's expression clearly broadcast his disbelief.

To Sam's relief, the waitress chose that moment to return with their food.

"Here you go, gentlemen." She placed Sam's plate of pancakes down then Dean's bowl. She plunked maple syrup and Dean's orange juice and side of brown sugar down next. "Refills on the coffee?"

Dean immediately nodded, dumping the sugar on his steaming oatmeal as Annie moved away. He stirred the thick concoction, watched the tan crystals melt into swirls of amber.

"Dean—"

"Just find us something to keep us busy until the next installment of Apocalypse Now, Sam, okay?" He kept his attention focused on the hot cereal in front of him while he listened to the laptop ping and whirl as it booted.

Between enormous bites of his syrup-laden flapjacks, Sam read from the screen, "Four people missing in De Pere, Wisconsin. Car was found with doors wide open, still running but no keys in the ignition." When Dean merely nodded, the younger man huffed out a breath, called up the next page, and continued, "Here's a report of mysterious lights and animal sightings in the woods of the Red Willow Reservoir State Recreation Area in McCook, Nebraska." A click of the mouse brought up another webpage, and Sam allowed a small smile to grace his face. This ought to get Dean's attention. "Or there's the 180-year-old bar in Cuchillo, New Mexico, that might be haunted."

Dean finally looked up from the now-cold-and-gummy oatmeal he'd been doing nothing more than playing with and rubbed forcefully at his tired eyes. "Pick one. I'm gonna hit the head then we'll get on the road to wherever." He downed the remainder of his orange juice, dug out his wallet, and dropped money on the table before he slid out of the booth.

Frustrated and a little annoyed, Sam closed the laptop with an emphatic click, swallowed the last of his coffee and headed out to the Impala to await his brother.

TBC…