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Author's Note: I am SO nervous about posting this! Thanks to all who take the time to read it.
Nifty Fact for the Day: The title of this story, Obsideo, is Latin and roughly translates into the word haunted. Oddly enough, it also translates into obsession.
o(1)o
Dean didn't know that he wept in his sleep.
Not loudly enough to wake anyone, but muted sobs that sounded like they were caught in his throat, almost silent, and filled with a world of pain. He didn't know that, sometimes, he called out for their dad, and, sometimes, his hands twitched, continuing to fight even though he was fast asleep.
Sam sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face and closed the book he had been poring over for the last two hours. It had been just as useless as the last one and the one before that; just as useless as all the others he'd wasted countless nights studying.
But only half as useless as he felt at that moment.
The TV had long since run its gamut of programs, now bathing the motel room in fluorescent blue light and the thrumming silence of dead air. Outside, the patter of rain was punctuated by the rumble distant thunder and the occasional, waning, burst of lightening.
On any other night it might have been soothing enough to lull him into at least an hour or two of broken rest, but tonight, with Dean's low moans alternately breaking his heart and making him want to reach for the holy water, Sam had completely had abandoned the idea of sleep hours ago.
Stretching, he felt the bones in his back pop like a string of firecrackers, a reminder just how long he'd been hunched over that book, and got to his feet with a wince. Pacing around the small motel room did little to help his stiff muscles, but even a little reprieve was better than nothing.
Across the room, Dean's shoulders jerked and his brother's hands clenched into fists, knuckles turning bloodless and white. Sam stopped mid-stride, watching him, waiting to see if his brother would settle back to sleep.
When they had first started their journey together he had been jealous, almost bitter, toward his brother's blasé attitude for the horrors they faced. Dean was always full of quips and cavalier grins and there were times when Sam, grieving and haunted by nightmares of Jessica, had hated him for that.
Now, he wondered how he could have ever been so blind.
He'd only tried to talk to Dean about the nightmares once, on the road to some small down in Nebraska, endless fields of green flying by outside the Impala. He'd interrupted the beginnings of a game of What's That Roadkill? and finally voiced the fears that had been gnawing at his brain for weeks.
In response, his brother hadn't even looked away from the road. Dean had simply quirked an eyebrow and told him to shut up, cranking the stereo until AC/DC had blasted the concern, and any other coherent thoughts, right out of Sam's head.
It was hard to worry about much of anything with your big brother announcing that he 'had the biggest balls of them all' at the top of his lungs.
Sam hadn't brought it up since.
Dean turned over, the motion not quite masking another choked-off sob, and the guilt that had long-since settled in Sam's chest give a wrenching twist.
He was the demon's choice, the one with the destiny that would more than likely see him dead, the prodigal son. But Dean was the one that was always made to suffer for it, for him.
Beaten and bloodied, his brother always got back up, ready for another round of abuse, some smart-ass comment in tow.
Dean hid the sharp pain of fresh injuries as smoothly as he hid the dull ache of long-mended wounds. His brother's demons were unseen, fought long after the hunt had ended, and always fought alone.
For as different as they were, however, Sam knew his brother better than most people gave him credit for, and he knew when Dean was hurting.
Which somehow made it all the worse.
Dean's eyes snapped open the instant Sam reached to wake him, and for a moment his big brother looked so young, so vulnerable, that it made Sam's chest ache.
But then he was Dean again, as cocksure and inscrutable as ever as he swatted Sam's hand away, squinting against the faint light that was beginning to filter into the motel room.
"Dude, what gives?"
The words and worry stuck in Sam's throat like paste and he swallowed hard against them, staring at his brother.
Sitting up, Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, gaze flitting around the room for some sign of danger. His left hand remained hidden beneath his pillow, curled around the knife Sam knew was hidden there.
"Sammy?" Dean was more alert now and watching him with narrowed eyes. "Sam?"
Clearing his throat, Sam looked away, "Nothing."
For a moment, he could almost hear the gears turning in his brother's head Dean tried to figure out what was wrong, but then his brother ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up at wild angles, and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Freak," Dean muttered, getting to his feet and shuffling toward the bathroom. "Did you even try to sleep at all last night?"
Sam huffed quietly, shaking his head and ignoring his brother's question. "I need to get out of here," he said quietly, then louder: "I'm going for coffee. Do you want anything?"
The grunt he received in reply was classic early-morning-Dean for 'yes' and Sam grabbed his jacket, shrugging it on.
"I won't be long."
The motel's ancient plumbing creaked and shuddered like a creature in torment and a moment later Sam heard the hiss of the shower
"None of that girly crap you normally get; mocha-choka-latte whatever," Dean yelled from behind the bathroom door.
Amidst the muddle of darker emotions, Sam found a genuine smile. "Right," he called back, hand on the doorknob.
"Grab some doughnuts too."
Snorting, Sam pulled the motel door open, flooding the dingy room with muted daylight.
Outside, morning birds were announcing the beginning of another day and the horizon was awash with the first shades of indigo and peach. The worst of the storm had passed and it was shaping up to be a beautiful morning.
Turning his face to the dawn, Sam stepped out into the parking lot, and drew in a deep breath of fresh air. With the sun rising and Dean awake and as acerbic as ever, last night's worries were beginning to seem exaggerated and insubstantial. Just stress and his imagination working overtime.
He shut the door just as his brother's final yell reached him.
"And no sprinkles!"
Yeah, Dean was going to be just fine.
o()o
There were a lot of brochure-worthy things to be said about spring mornings in the Midwest, especially after a storm: how fresh the air smelled, washed clean by the previous night's rain, the bright green of the grass and the way the sky seemed just a little more blue than usual.
The night crawlers, however, were usually not included in the catalogs.
The stoop outside of the motel was littered with dozens of the fat worms, flooded out of the earth by last night's rain. They sprawled in deep puddles and languished on the grit-covered concrete.
Stepping out of the motel room, Dean's boot met one with a cringe-inducing squish, and he grimaced, looking down at what was left of the hapless creature.
Definitely not brochure material.
"Gross."
Scraping the bottom of his boot off, Dean spied a newspaper that had been abandoned atop a trashcan a few doors down. That was one more quarter he could save for the next motel that had one of those Magic Fingers-type beds.
Stepping over a particularly stout worm, only to squash a smaller one, he snatched the paper from the barrel and made his way back to the safety of the doorway sending two more night crawlers to meet their maker in the process.
"Son of a bitch!"
Definitely, definitely, not brochure material.
The newspaper was the same as every newspaper in every small town across America. Leaning against the door jam with his prize, Dean skipped over award-winning tomatoes, high school sports, the rising level of the Mississippi river, and grocery store ads, flipping directly to the two most important parts of any newspaper:
The comics and the obituaries.
There was nothing good in the comics, they just hadn't been the same since Far Side stopped running, and Dear Abby was just as bad.
"Nobody gives decent advice anymore," he groused, turning the still-damp pages, unmindful of the news ink rubbing off on his fingers.
The obituaries proved to be just about as interesting.
Skimming the rest of the paper with a yawn, Dean paused at an article he'd overlooked to begin with, eyebrows rising as he read.
Yahtzee.
An exasperated groan from across the parking lot captured his attention and he looked up from the article to see Sam, balancing two cups of coffee and a bag that Dean hoped had doughnuts in it.
His little brother jumped backwards and looked at the bottom of one worn sneaker, his face twisted in disgust.
Another one bites the dust, Dean thought, the corner of his mouth quirking.
After a good shoe-cleaning on the grass, Sam made his way gingerly across the asphalt, probably dodging the little bastards as best he could, until finally reaching the walkway.
He offered Dean a Styrofoam cup and the paper sack looking back over the pavement. "That's just vile."
"Nothing like starting your day with a cup of hot java and a worm apocalypse,"
Sam made a face, giving the parking lot one last scowl. "Anything interesting?" he asked, inclining his head toward the newspaper.
Dean returned to the story that had caught his eye. "Missy Barlow," he read, "twenty two, disappeared four days ago. I think we should check it out."
"You're serious?" Sam's tone was incredulous.
"What?"
"People go missing all the time, Dean. What makes you think this is our kind of thing?"
Flipping the paper so his brother could see it, Dean tapped the article with his finger. "It says here that Missy was six months pregnant and that she was last seen taking a walk along the river."
Sam frowned at the newspaper, brow furrowing. "Wait. Wasn't there something like that at the last town we were at?"
"In Wabasha, yeah," he pulled a doughnut out of the bag and took a bite. "Another girl went missing there too, also with a bun in the oven, also last seen by the river."
"Think we have a pattern?"
"Maybe." Dean tossed the bag to his brother and took a drink of his coffee, taking a moment to savor the taste of bitter caffeine and chocolate. "Couldn't hurt to look into it."
Sam nodded, retrieving a doughnut of his own. "We can hit the library as soon as it opens, see if there are others."
"I can barely contain my excitement."
"Shut up."
Dean chuckled, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Come on, Sammy, where's your sense of humor?"
o()o
