Disclaimer: If I owned them, I'd know all their secrets. Alas, I know nothing, which is also what I own.
Warning: Unabashed angst.
Author's Note: So, this is the next instalment. It takes off immediately after Tortured Soul, as in, it starts on the same night where I killed John. If you haven't read Tortured Soul, you might have some trouble keeping up, so if I were you, I'd read that one first. Don't worry, it's good! Well, I think it is. How about you?
Oh, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY JENSEN ACKLES! This post is to celebrate the glorious coming of one sexy man-beast.
FIGHT CLUB
Chapter 1: Shockwaves
The streets seemed far too bare, even for the late hour. The moon shone overhead, the weather was calm and pleasant, and even though the weekend was not yet upon the town of Cromwell, it was still far too quiet. There was no one around.
No one except for the man running madly through the streets, looking for somewhere, anywhere, to hide from the people chasing him. Blake McMillan panted heavily, having already run a fair distance, and wished he had his gun at his side. Not to kill them or hurt them, but to scare them off. He was a cop, he didn't want to kill anyone.
Not that it would have helped, him shooting the chasers, but he didn't know that.
He skidded around a corner, a puddle of something indescribable almost making him slip. He groaned as he realized it allowed his followers to catch up somewhat. Was there no way to loose these guys?
And then out of nowhere someone tackled him, and they both fell to the ground. The air was driven from Blake's lungs and he lay there, heaving, even as the tackler got to his feet. The rest of them caught up in no time at all.
Blake looked up at them standing in a circle around him, wondering who the hell they were. He had never seen them before. There were five of them, including the one that had come from nowhere, tall, pale, dark eyed, though now and then some of their eye's seemed to flash. And none of them were panting, even after chasing him all over the town.
"Gave a good chase, didn't he," one of them suddenly said. "Hopefully he'll be just as good in the ring. Bring him."
The speaker turned on his heels and left, assuming the rest would follow his orders. They did, and Blake felt hands grab his arms. He tried to struggle but their strength was practically inhuman. Still, he struggled despite the instant knowledge it was useless, and one turned on him, hissing in annoyance.
Blake fell back as the… thing leered at him, feeling true fear for the first time that night. Because he had never seen a mouth like that.
A mouth full of long, pointy teeth, brightly pale in the dark of the night.
The trip back into Cromwell was silent and uncomfortable. Both Winchester brothers felt the keen grief cutting away at their hearts, and couldn't or wouldn't find the words to stop the pain.
They had left the damned farm the moment their father's funeral pyre had burned down to embers, leaving the ashes to scatter. Dean wished he could pretend it had had some deeply symbolic meaning behind it, like that their father would always and forever travel America, going wherever he pleased, driven only by the wind. But it hadn't. Rather, both brothers had been too tired to gather the ashes, too emotionally exhausted to even give their father that last farewell in a special place.
They had only packed the Impala with their stuff and left, desperate to leave behind the terrible memories of that place. It was there that their father had died, there that they had lost hope for a terribly bare instant, there that their world had shattered.
Sam gazed unseeing out of the passenger window, watching the darkened land roll by. Dean could tell by the pale look to his face what he was thinking about. He knew by the broken light to his baby brother's eyes that he blamed himself for John's demise.
He withheld a sigh but shifted uncomfortably on the seat. He had his final orders, though in reality those orders had been unneeded. There was no way in the world that Dean was going to let Sam spiral with guilt.
"Sam," he began, not realizing he was using that voice he reserved for the fragile minded victims or witnesses of a hunt. But the younger hunter picked up on it easily, and his face gave way to anger.
"Dean, don't start, okay. I'm tired. I just want to rest."
Dean spared him a quick glance. He almost wished he knew what was going through Sam's head. Almost wished he knew what the demon had done to him to make him this way. To make him this quiet, crushed Sam. Almost.
"It wasn't your fault. Dad didn't blame you," Dean said, leaping into the conversation. Sam closed his eyes and turned his head away, leaning it against the cool of the window.
"Dean, please," he whispered. "Just leave it."
"No way," Dean retorted. "If we 'just leave it', we'll never talk about it, and you'll let it eat away at you. I'm not having you do that." I'm not losing you too. But, no, he wasn't about to go that far into sensitivity. Not yet, and only if needed.
He had a feeling it would be.
"Look, we'll talk," Sam promised. "Just not…"
He trailed off suddenly, opening his eyes and looking around, his gaze searching for something. The car must have passed it, because he kept on looking, turning his head behind as the car continued on.
"What is it?" Dean asked, not liking the look on Sam's face.
The younger man shook his head, looking back out of the front window. "Nothing. I just thought… sorry, my imagination's playing up."
They reached the motel at that moment, and Dean brought the car to a gentle halt. But he didn't get out.
"We have to talk about it sometime," Dean tried to start again. Sam cut him off before he could go further.
"Why?" Sam snapped. "Because you say? So, when I want to talk, that doesn't count. But the instant Dad orders you to be all Mr Emotional, you do it?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean snapped back before he could help himself.
Sam sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. I don't know. I'm so tired, Dean. I just need to sleep."
Dean stared at him for a moment. Then he nodded. "I think we both do."
They left everything in the car and went into their room, glad to find their belongings still there even after not coming in the night before. Sam noticed Dean suddenly all quiet, but didn't press on it. He didn't want to talk. About anything. He just wanted to forget. And he hoped he could do that for at least a moment as he slept. At least until the dreams came, nightmares of what the demon had whispered to him the moment before it tried to fry his mind. Nightmares of what it all but promised he would become…
They got ready for bed in the same uncomfortable silence that had filled the car on the trip back into town. Dean went to shower, but Sam lay down on his bed, fully dressed, and pretended to be asleep when Dean came back in.
The minutes ticked by, easily marked by the constant flashing of the alarm clock. Sam lay in his bed, breathing gently, unmoving. But not sleeping. He had started counting the flashes of light five times before Dean's soft snores began to rip through the room.
He had turned and let his face contort into a snarl before he realized what he was doing. Horrified, he turned back to face the wall, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to shut out the demon's traces that were still within him. Trying to shut out those niggling words…
You'll find me again, Sammy. You won't be able to help yourself. There's a darkness in you, and you know it. You know it can take over.
Never! he snarled at the memory, just as he had snarled at the demon. He knew the darkness was there, he'd known ever since he had rescued Dean from Eve and lost his sight. But he would never let it take over. Never!
Breathing harder, he wished… he wasn't sure what he wished. He would begin to hope for something, would start that sentence, I wish… But he couldn't finish it. Couldn't finish the damn thought, because his head felt so jumbled. So tainted by the darkness the demon had spoken of, and tainted by the demon itself.
If he closed his eyes, it was still in there. He could still see the dark shadow clawing at his mind, tearing it apart with satisfaction and glee beyond human comprehension. He could feel it's ecstatic anticipation as it stared down at that baby boy, the one called Drew, and the joy as it began to kill the young mother, the one called Amelia. And he could feel its elation as it literally ripped his father apart from the inside.
And all of that hurt, all of it caused the grief and guilt to swell up inside of him, making it difficult to breath. But it was nothing to the horror he felt as his mind gave way to the demon's incessant advances, to the demon's psychic torture as it ripped his mind apart.
Suddenly unable to breath, Sam threw the covers off and got up, stumbling noiselessly as he made it to the bathroom. There he closed the door, but left the light off, leaning on the basin as he tried to make the world stop spinning.
He breathed deeply, in and out, in and out. If he closed his eyes it just made the dizziness worse, so he kept them open and looked into them, trying to ignore the yellow tint he swore was there, far inside him. He looked at himself, and one word came unbidden to mind.
Murderer.
He swallowed, ruthlessly shoving the thought away. But it was too late. He had killed his father, he had, whatever Dean wanted to pretend. He had been weak, and useless, unable to stop the demon as his own mind ripped his father apart, unable to stop the darkness. The same went with the still nameless girl, whom the demon had lured back to her own apartment. He hadn't been able to save either of them. He hadn't.
His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, leaning against the cupboard underneath the basin. His hands shook and he clenched them, trying to stop it. He could smell it on him, the blood that was invisible on his hands. His dad's blood, that girl's blood. They had died, and it was his fault, because he wasn't strong enough.
Suddenly smell overwhelmed him; the imaginary smell of blood, the all-too-real smell of ash and fire on his clothes, the stench of fear and pain the demon had so revelled in. His hands shook as he ripped his shirt off, realizing he hadn't changed it. Realizing it smelt of John's burning body.
That was too much. Unable to keep the bile down any longer, he crawled quickly to the toilet, leaning on it as he retched, trying to do it as quietly as possible so to avoid waking Dean.
Dean was already awake. He had woken as Sam all but fell out of the bed across from him. And he hadn't moved to follow his little brother. Instead, he had listened. Listened to the silence as Sam had done God knew what. Listened to the thump as Sam's legs gave way. Listened to the shuffling and the retching as Sam crawled to the toilet and threw up all his feelings. And he did nothing.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face in the dark. He wanted nothing more than to go into that bathroom and comfort his little brother. But he didn't know how. Sam was hurt. More hurt, emotionally, than Dean had ever seen him before. And Dean's usual rub on the back and comforting jokes just weren't going to help this time. He just didn't know what to do.
He rolled over as the noises coming from the bathroom stopped, unwilling to let Sam see him awake. Unwilling to let Sam think he hadn't cared.
He feigned sleep as the bathroom door opened and Sam came stumbling back in, audibly wheezing. But Dean kept his breathing steady, kept his eyes closed. And Sam lay back down in his bed and said nothing.
A little angst to get us all started…. And on to chapter 2.